


Hello Hurricane

by inkandpaperqwerty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Caretaker Dean Winchester, Caretaker Sam Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel (Supernatural) Whump, Confusion, Crying Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Teaches Castiel to be Human, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Fear, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Guilty Castiel (Supernatural), Guilty Dean Winchester, Guilty Sam Winchester, Heaven's Persuasion, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Pain, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Quote: Family Don't End With Blood (Supernatural), Recovery, Sam Winchester Teaches Castiel to be Human, Season/Series 05, Torture, Touch-Starved Castiel, Trust Issues, Universe Alteration, reeducation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Sam swallowed hard. "Dean, what... what happened to him?"Dean didn't know how to answer that. He hadn't seen Castiel since he was trapped in the fancy prison cell with the cheeseburgers and gold trim. He had called Castiel soulless and spineless, among other things, and then he had cut the angel off."We're done.""Dean—""We're done."Castiel had vanished after that, and Dean hadn't seen him since. Maybe he still hadn't seen him. Because the broken person cowering in front of him was not Castiel. It couldn't be.





	Hello Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this since September, 2018, and I am just now finally finishing it. It's a pretty long oneshot, so if you want to know a little more before you commit to reading, the premise is pretty straightforward. After Dean and Castiel had their fight in the greenroom, Castiel _planned_ to help Dean like he did in the series, but he was intercepted by Heaven before he could. He has been in reeducation for an undisclosed amount of time, and then he's thrown back to Earth, where Dean and Sam find him.
> 
> I tried to find a happy medium when writing this, because I'm not a fan of stories that show Castiel as this whiny, simpering victim who can't do anything for himself, but in this particular story, his trauma is _severe._ There is a lot of crying/begging, but it's mostly when he's disoriented. You'll have to be the judge of how accurate you think it is.
> 
> Title is a song by _Switchfoot._ I think it's pretty fitting.

“We have to at least look. If she was telling the truth, someone needs help.”

Dean wet his lips and scanned the hallway again, glossing over the garbage and abandoned hospital equipment in search of something useful. Like, for example, evidence of a trap. Because he couldn’t think of any reason why it _wouldn’t_ be a trap.

“Dean—”

“I know, okay?” Dean didn’t mean to snap, but the witch had gotten under his skin, and it wasn’t like he had been in the best mood to begin with. “I just… who do we know with _mental_ _walls?_ What does that even mean?”

“Well, from the way she was talking, it sounds like the person _doesn’t_ have them but needs them. And…” Sam crept down the corridor, a slight shrug lifting his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe one of the other psychic kids is still around? Maybe they wanted help controlling their powers or something?”

Dean snorted but cautiously followed Sam down the hall. “Yeah, right.” He let his flashlight beam wander over the partially lit passage. “What are the chances of that?”

“It’s more than you can come up with,” Sam snapped.

Dean glared at Sam’s back. “Hey, maybe it’s another friendly neighborhood demon for you to bang. What do you think of that theory?”

Dean regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, guilty eyes watching as Sam flinched but offered no defense. Why did Dean always have to run his mouth when he was tired and irritable?

“Sam—”

“No, it’s okay.” Sam continued to look through the doorways they passed, another shrug pinching his shoulders. “You aren’t wrong.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped short when he heard what sounded like sobs coming from somewhere down the hall. “Do you hear that?”

Sam stopped moving, and after a second of nothing, more cries echoed in the silence.

They were tired sobs; the kind Dean had grown accustomed to in Hell, the kind his victims would let out when the torture had gone on for hours with no relief and they simply _couldn’t_ cry with vigor anymore. Too much pain to keep quiet but too little energy to make noise. They were the kind of sobs that sounded more like panting, hard and heavy exhales broken up with empty space left by weakened vocal cords and a bloody mouth.

It made Dean feel sick to hear it topside.

“Hello?” Sam called softly, his voice bouncing from wall to wall and back again. “We’re here to get you out. Can you help us find you?”

For a moment, the crying stopped, and then a faint whisper took its place.

“…no… please… not this… not again…”

It was a low voice, definitely male, but small and broken and choked with tears. It was familiar but so utterly wrecked that Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on who it belonged to. _Who do we know with mental walls? Or a need for mental walls? Or mental anything?_ Dean moved slowly, trying to locate the victim by ear as he navigated the mess of overturned, broken down hospital equipment. _We know some psychics, but none that are guys. All the dude psychics we knew are dead. Ash is pretty smart, but… how would any kind of mental wall help him?_

“We aren’t here to hurt you; we’re here to help.” Sam cleared his throat and continued walking, checking the doors on the right side of the hall while Dean followed along and checked their twins on the left. “We got rid of the witch. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

“…please… _please_ …”

Dean and Sam exchanged glances, and then Dean was looking through busted windows and makeshift cell bars again. He almost passed another room, thinking it was empty, but a slight movement caught his eye. It was dark, and he couldn’t make out much of the interior, but he was pretty sure something in the far corner had jolted.

Dean shined his flashlight directly at the object of interest, and it flinched away.

It was, at the very least, alive and sensitive to light.

Dean tried to get a good look at the room with the span of light his flashlight provided, but he couldn’t make out much without taking the light off the person huddled in the corner. Just fallen ceiling tiles, broken glass, and a dark-haired man in a filthy, bloodstained, once-upon-a-time-white shirt.

“Hey, there, buddy.”

He—whoever ‘he’ was—pushed himself deeper into the corner and whimpered. He shook his head rapidly, sobs working their way up his throat, words growing more coherent but also more frantic. “No, no, no, please. I’ve learned. I’ve learned my lesson, I have, I promise, I _promise_ , please not this, anything but this, please…”

“Sam, I found him. Or I found someone.” Dean grabbed the door and gave it a few tugs. It was locked, but it didn’t seem all that sturdy.

Then again, the guy inside didn’t seem capable of kicking down a door in his current state… or a sandcastle… or a dandelion… or air… so maybe whoever put him there wasn’t all that concerned about him getting out.

“Hey, there.” Sam joined Dean by the door and shined his light around the room, scanning for threats or clues. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” He cast the light across a rusty bedframe and twenty years of water damage. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Okay? You’re safe now.”

“Get back a second,” Dean muttered, nudging Sam away. “I’m gonna give it a kick, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll double-team it.”

Both brothers were aware of increasing objections in the background, and the man in the ex-hospital room grew more panicked the closer they got to a rescue. Still, it wasn’t the first time they had to deal with somebody scared senseless, so they kicked and shoved their way to access granted.

Dean took the lead, slowly approaching the corner. “Hey, it’s okay. Look up here for me, would you?” He thought if he could get a look at the man’s face, maybe he could place him. “Come on. I won’t shine the light in your eyes.” He aimed it downward slightly to prove his point. “Just wanna get a look at you.”

There was a shudder, a whine, and then the man started to move. His fingers dug into his torn, bloody sleeves, and he slowly brought puffy, bloodshot, glassy, unmistakably _blue_ eyes up to meet Dean’s confused, angry, horrified, green ones.

“Castiel?” Sam breathed, asking the question Dean couldn’t quite get his lips to form.

Hearing his name seemed to be a trigger of some kind, and Castiel collapsed against the wall in a heap of weary sobs and mumbled pleas. “Please, please don’t do this… please, please, please…”

Sam swallowed hard. “Dean, what… what happened to him?”

Dean didn’t know how to answer that. He hadn’t seen Castiel since he was trapped in the fancy prison cell with the cheeseburgers and gold trim. He had called Castiel soulless and spineless, among other things, and then he had cut the angel off.

_“We’re done.”_

_“Dean—”_

_“We’re done.”_

Castiel had vanished after that, and Dean hadn’t seen him since. Once Sam opened the Cage, Dean was thrown unceremoniously back into the real world. More specifically, he was thrown onto a plane right next to Sam, both of them complaining of an aching ribcage. Since then, they had managed to avoid the angels, and that included Castiel.

“I, uh, I don’t know what happened.” Dean gave a delayed, disjointed answer to Sam’s question. “I…” Dean cleared his throat and moved a little closer, sinking into a crouch. _I can’t make out a lot of injuries._ Just the cuts on Castiel’s face and the obvious damage to his hands and feet. _But there’s so much blood… it’s probably just hidden by his clothes… and because he’s filthy._ Filthy and wearing nothing but tattered pants and the once-white dress shirt that went with Jimmy Novak’s suit. His tie, his coat, his _over_ coat, his shoes and socks… he was practically naked.

Dean reached out to brush the matted bangs out of Castiel’s face.

Castiel flinched away from the almost touch, words tumbling from his lips as he curled into a ball. “No, no, no, please, not again. Please. I’ve learned. I’ve learned my lesson, I have, I promise I have, please, just—not again, not this again, please, please, _please!”_ He covered his head and curled up tighter, if that was even possible, his breath coming in short, staggered gasps.

“Cas—”

“Dean Winchester is a mission not a companion. I do not serve Dean Winchester.” Castiel sobbed again, fingers digging into his own skull. “I—I’ve learned, I have—I have,” he sucked down a lungful of air, “so please, please, have mercy. It hurts … it hurts so much… please, let it be over…”

Dean felt sick, and it was worse than before. That was _not_ Castiel. That wasn’t the angel who pulled Dean out of Hell and swaggered into a barn with powers no hunter had ever seen before. That wasn’t the angel who manipulated Dean, who threatened to destroy a whole town, who nearly broke Dean’s hand by simply standing still and taking a blow to the jaw.

“Cas…?”

Castiel sobbed again and his body went slack against the wall, all efforts to maintain a ball-like state dissolving. “Please… please… _please_ …”

Dean looked at Sam for help, but Sam looked just as lost as Dean. Dean kept looking at Sam, and he would look at Sam until the sun burned out if it meant he didn’t have to figure out what to do by himself.

Sam opened his mouth and then shut it. He shook his head, moved closer, and crouched down but offered no words. Dean looked back at Castiel and reached out even slower than before, hoping he could shake Castiel into a state of awareness.

Castiel flinched back again, and when he looked up at them, his eyes widened and few more tears spilled over his bruised, dirt-smudged, tear-stained cheeks. “S—Sam, too?”

Dean frowned, more confused than ever. _If he knows it’s us, what’s the problem?_

“Castiel… can you see us?” Sam spoke in a soothing way Dean could never quite manage, and Dean had never been more grateful for his brother’s soft, mild-mannered nature.

Castiel, on the other hand, looked like the question caused him physical pain, and his face twisted up in anguish. “Please, don’t… don’t do this…”

Dean shook his head. “Cas, we’re not doing anything.” He frowned again, deeper, and looked over his shoulder at Sam. “If the witch was talking about Cas, what walls would cause… _this_ by breaking down? Or, if they weren’t there in the first place, then… I mean, what were they supposed to do for him?”

“Stop,” Castiel pleaded, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Stop, please, just stop.”

“Castiel,” Sam inched a little closer but stayed behind Dean. “We want to help, okay? Let us help you.”

Castiel shook his head rapidly, covering his ears and screwing his eyes shut. “Please! I'll be good, I'll be _so_ good!” He collapsed onto his side, his back curved into the corner. “I'll never disobey orders again, just don't do this to me, please!”

Dean swallowed thickly. “Cas, what do you think we’re going to do to you?”

“I know they aren’t real!” Castiel screamed the words, eyes shut tight, bare feet scraping uselessly against the concrete as he pushed himself back into the corner. “It doesn’t work anymore. I know they aren’t real, so please—please stop showing them to me. Please, I can’t—I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he lost the ability to hold his head up, his temple thudding against the floor as he cried. “I can’t—d-do this anym-more…” He began sobbing through his words, arms wrapping around his head, knees pulling up toward his chest, breathy hiccups adding syllables where they didn’t belong. “I can’t d-do it anymore, p-please, _please,_ I’m sorry… I’ll never q-question the plan again. N-never, I swear, I _swear,_ just s-stop… please, make them go awa-ay… don’t—don’t do this to me…”

Dean didn’t really know what his arms were doing, but suddenly Castiel was sobbing on Dean’s lap instead of the cement. Sam stared, horrorstricken, while Dean absently rubbed Castiel’s heaving back and shoulders. Dean stared blankly, mouth open and struggling for words as the feverish, sweaty body trembled under his hands.

“Cas, we’re real.” It was all Dean could think to say. “This is us. Okay?”

Castiel wept louder, clutching his head, torso pressed against Dean’s thighs while his feet pushed against the floor, scraping through the splintered wood and broken glass. “No, no, no…”

“Cas, I swear, it’s us. It’s—Sam, help me.” Dean looked to his brother again, hoping Sam would have some specific memory or fact stored in that marvelous brain of his. Something to prove they were the real deal.

Sam stuttered for a moment, shaking his head with a helpless expression. “Uh, I—I didn’t spend as much time with him, Dean. I don’t…” He walked around Castiel even as he spoke, crouching down and trying to push the bloody, shredded feet clear of debris. “He doesn’t really like me.”

Dean looked back at Castiel and struggled for another moment before blurting out, “Do you remember the park?”

Castiel tensed, one foot jerking away from Sam.

“We watched the kids play, and you told me you were glad the town was saved.” Dean kept rubbing Castiel’s back, not knowing what else to do. “You said you weren’t a hammer. You told me you had doubts. You… actually seemed kind of human for a change, and…” It had made Dean trust him. “Remember?”

Castiel flinched, and Dean quickly realized it was a mistake to bring up an example of disobedience. But what else could he do? He didn’t exactly have a lot of memories to choose from.

“I made a mistake,” Castiel whispered. “It won't happen again.” He whined, pulling away from Sam again, trying to roll off Dean’s lap without letting go of his own head. “It will—it will _never_ happen again. I promise.”

Dean rubbed Castiel’s back a little harder, trying to ignore the crimson stain spreading over his hand and wrist. “Cas, remember the kids? How they laughed and played? How sunny it was, even after the crappy night we had? It was nice, wasn’t it?”

Castiel shook his head rapidly, choking out a noise of distress. “It didn’t— _doesn’t_ matter. Children grow up and change and _suffer_ —it’s not worth it. There is nothing but pain and fear, even in the best humanity has to offer, and it’s not worth saving. I know better now. I _know_ better.”

 _That actually sounds like something he would say, at least._ That was the last thing they had talked about… fought about… before Castiel dropped off the radar. _Stop. I can’t think about that now._

“Um, do you… remember showing up in my dream?” Dean tried, wetting his lips. “I mentioned it to you the last time we saw each other.” When they fought, which probably wasn’t the best thing to bring up, but Dean didn’t know what else to do. “We were on a pier by a lake. I think I was, um, fishing or something. You—”

“Please…” Castiel turned his head to stare at the wall in Sam’s direction, but his face stayed mostly buried in denim. “I do not serve Dean Winchester… and I… disappointed him greatly. I will not attempt to contact him again… I…” He shuddered violently, fingers twitching against the concrete. “I know my place, so please… please…”

“Cas, you aren’t there anymore. I don’t know exactly _where_ you think you are, but…” Dean trailed off, overwhelmed by a sensation of total helplessness. “Sammy, what do we do? How do we snap him out of it?”

Sam spread his hands in a way that displayed all the helplessness Dean felt, but Sam still tried. He moved a bit closer and softly combed his fingers through Castiel’s hair. “He feels really warm, Dean.”

Dean nodded. “I thought so, too.”

Sam combed his fingers through again, pressing the back of his hand to Castiel’s forehead, cheek, and then neck. “Maybe they took away some of his angelic… I don’t know, power? Or burned it out somehow? You know, made him use it all up?” He stroked the sweaty locks again. “Could he get sick if he was de-powered?”

“I don’t know.” Dean rubbed Castiel’s back a few more times, not missing the way Castiel leaned into both of their touches. _How long has he been like this?_

“Well, fevers can cause hallucinations and disorientation if they get high enough. Maybe if we get his fever down, he’ll be a little more coherent.” Sam lifted the hem of Castiel’s shirt and grimaced at the patchwork of bloody wounds underneath, finding a patch of smooth skin and pressing his hand to it. “Dean, he’s burning up.”

Dean cursed under his breath and looked around at the mildew and mold. _This place is a freaking petri dish._ “Okay, well, whatever is wrong with him, we gotta get him out of here. Can he walk?”

“On those feet?” Sam arched a brow and opened his mouth to object further.

“Stop.” Castiel shook his head. “This isn’t real.” But he didn’t try to pull away. “They wouldn’t be this kind.” But he didn’t reject the kindness. “Sam is a monster.” But he leaned into Sam’s touch just as much as Dean’s. “Dean was my mission.” But he stayed on Dean’s lap. “I lied to Dean. I betrayed and used him. He’ll never forgive me.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other for a moment, and though there was lingering hurt in Sam’s eyes, it was overwhelmed by concern.

Castiel choked out another sob, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t want Dean’s forgiveness. I—I’m an _angel_. I’m supposed to be _better_ , but I can’t help it. I don’t want him to hate me. I’m d-defective. I’m _broken,_ and I don’t know what to do.” He turned his head and buried his face in Dean’s stomach, trying to make himself as small as possible, hands finally abandoning his skull in favor of clinging to Dean’s shirt. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. Brother, please, no more. I know I was wrong. I won’t rebel again, I promise, just… just stop this… _please._ ”

Dean shut his eyes and tried to organize his thoughts, having no idea what to do but knowing he had to do _something._ Something to get Castiel out of his own head, to make him stop talking that way.

“Cas, this isn’t your fault. Okay?” Dean took a breath and tried to figure out what to say next, but Castiel was already speaking.

“Yes, it is.” Castiel exhaled sharply, his body going lax as his face lost all expression. “I’ve always been a problem. I came off the line with a crack in my chassis.”

Dean almost recoiled.

Those weren’t Castiel’s words. They were flat and dead and _wrong._

“Heaven has tried time and again to fix me, but it just won’t stick.”

That wasn’t Castiel, either, and it made Dean see red. Who was in Castiel’s head, and how could Dean get them _out?_

“Next time I malfunction, it might not be worth it to repair me. Maybe it’s time to put me down. Disobedient little angel. I should know better.” Castiel barely got the words out before his face was contorting with pain, fresh tears springing up in his eyes as he gasped like a man come back to life. “No! No, Naomi, no, please, not the drill. I’ll be good. I’ll be good, I promise. I want to remember, please—please, don’t take this away.” He covered his eyes with one arm while the other hand reached out to push away a non-existent threat. “I want to remember Dean. I want to remember Sam. I—I’ll be good, please, I promise!”

“Dean, it’s getting worse, not better.” Sam put his hands on Castiel’s legs when the angel—ex-angel?—started kicking. “He’s, I don’t know, hallucinating or having a flashback or something. He’s not seeing us anymore; we’ve gotta get him out of here.”

“Yeah.” Dean stared, frozen in horrified shock. “Yeah, you’re right.” Dean jerked himself from his thoughts and worked his hands beneath Castiel’s arms. “Come on, Cas, get your feet under you.”

“I won’t go with Dean Winchester.” Castiel shook his head, squirming in a futile attempt to get away. “I serve Heaven. I don’t serve man, and I don’t serve Dean Winchester. I won’t go with him. I know better. I know better!”

“This isn’t a freakin’ test, Cas!”

Castiel flinched, and Dean inwardly cursed himself. _Great. You just can’t keep a lid on it today, can you?_

“Cas…” Dean let out a sigh. “You aren’t broken, okay?” He lifted Castiel from the ground and jerked his head to indicate his need for Sam’s help. “You’re better than all the rest of them combined. They were screwing around with your head, Cas.”

Sam helped Dean keep Castiel upright, speaking in a harsh whisper over Castiel’s head. “Dean, anything good you tell him is going to sound like a trap.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Tell him he’s right?” Dean snorted, letting Sam support Castiel’s weight while he got one arm around the trembling knees.

Castiel shuddered in Dean’s arms, shaking his head weakly. “Please, stop… stop this…”

“It’s okay, Cas.” Dean started toward the door, Sam going ahead of him with his weapon drawn. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“No one is coming for me!” Castiel twisted in Dean’s arms, but the resistance was weak. “This is never going to happen. They don’t want me, and I belong to Heaven, and I _know_ that I do, so please, _please…_ ” He choked out a sob and tried to curl up again. “I know I was wrong, and I—I know I deserve punishment, but please… _please,_ stop giving me people I can’t have. Please… I’ve been so alone for _so_ long… please…”

Dean kept his mouth shut, accepting the truth in Sam’s words; any attempt to interact with Castiel would be viewed through the lens of an illusion intended to cause pain. Sam didn’t say a word, either, though he kept looking over his shoulder to check on them. Castiel, for the most part, was silent, only quiet whimpers making it out and only when he was jostled or bumped the wrong way.

Then they got to the Impala, and it was hysteria all over again.

“This isn’t real.” Castiel started to squirm at the very sight of the black car, his breath quickening. “I’m alone. You’re not them. This isn’t real. This isn’t _real._ ”

Dean’s expression twisted up in pain as he maneuvered Castiel into the backseat, looking around for something to put on top of him because dangit if Castiel didn’t look like he needed a blanket.

“I’m alone, I deserve to be alone, and no one is coming for me.”

Dean let out a sigh. “Cas—”

“I’m alone, I deserve to be alone, and no one is coming for me,” Castiel repeated himself a little louder, reaching up to clamp his hands down over his ears. “I’m alone, I deserve to be alone, and no one is coming for me.”

“Dean, I got a blanket from—”

“I’m alone, I deserve to be alone, and no one is coming for me!” Castiel screwed his eyes shut and curled up on the seat, rocking slightly. “I’m alone, I deserve to be alone, and no one is—”

“Cas, shut up!” Dean didn’t realize he had grabbed Castiel’s wrists and pulled them away from his head until he heard himself shout. “Now, you listen to me a minute.”

“I’m alone, I—”

“I said _listen_ to me!” Dean shook him hard. “Look at me and listen, _now_.”

Castiel let out a soft, broken noise and forced his eyes open. Tears rolled down his dirt-smudged cheeks, pools of blue spilling abject terror over his features. He held himself perfectly still, no longer pulling against Dean’s hold, and held his breath.

“Cas, I don’t know… _what_ they did to you, but you’re not there anymore. This is real, okay? Right here, right now, real.” Dean pushed ahead despite Castiel’s frantic headshakes. “It’s like I told you, Cas. Real is people and families. Real is stupid… _human_ stuff angels could never understand. Okay? Stuff they wouldn’t even think of. It’s—” He struggled with his words, trying to come up with an example. “It’s that handful of songs everybody knows just because those are the songs everybody knows. It’s knowing that driving with the windows down, wind in your hair, and radio up loud is the best way to drive, even if driving any other way will get you there just as fast.”

Dean’s heart clenched at the cautious hope flickering to life in Castiel’s eyes, and he pressed on. “It’s looking at an ear of corn and saying, ‘I wonder what happens if we put this in a pan and heat it up?’ It’s sticking metal in our faces and ink under our skin because it looks cool. It’s dying our hair pink or blue or purple. It’s wishing on stars and catching fireflies and counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. It’s…” He shook his head slowly, running out of examples he could pull off the top of his head.

“It’s roasting marshmallows over an open fire.” Sam hovered over Dean’s shoulder, adding to the list Dean had started. “It’s setting off explosives because the colored lights and loud noises are fun. It’s feeling safer under a blanket even though it doesn’t make any sense. It’s going to the moon just to see if we can; because it’s pretty, and we’re curious about what’s out there.”

Dean nodded and held Castiel’s gaze, desperately hoping he could make the angel understand. “It’s just real life, Cas, and angels don’t know the first thing about that. They wouldn’t know _how_ to trick you with that, because their brains don’t work that way.”

Castiel panted heavily, chest fluttering. His eyes began to dart around the vehicle, as if trying to find any kind of discrepancy or evidence of illusion. He looked back at Dean, and his arms started to loosen up a bit. “This… this isn’t…” He shook his head. “I’m not…” He blinked a few times, fear and wonder battling for control over his face. “…Dean?” Castiel barely got the word out, every fiber of his being radiating dread.

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He nodded again and again. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s really me, and it’s really Sam.” He reached back and grabbed the blanket Sam was holding, flicking it open and putting it over Castiel as best he could. “You’re safe, Cas. No more tricks.”

Castiel sobbed with relief, melting onto the seat. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask for further assurance, didn’t try to explain any of what happened to him; he simply sobbed, clutching the blanket for dear life and wrapping himself as tightly as he could, body curled up and shaking.

Dean didn’t ask.

Neither did Sam.

They tucked the blanket around Castiel and started the car, keeping the music low. They pulled onto the open road, sitting in the kind of silence that allowed an entire conversation to pass between them.

“Please, Father…”

They both tensed when Castiel whispered.

“Let this be real… and if it isn’t… kill me before I wake up….”

* * *

Dean dabbed Castiel’s forehead again, happy to see the fever had gone down somewhat. He let out a heavy sigh and set the rag in the bowl of water on the nightstand, reaching up to rub his face.

They had left the old hospital roughly five hours earlier, and Castiel had been on the verge of waking up for only the last ten minutes. Dean wondered how much an angel had to be tortured before their ability to heal ran out and they started needing sleep and sustenance.

“Hmm…” Castiel turned his head, face scrunching up. “Mm?”

Dean smiled and snorted a quiet laugh, trying to nudge Castiel into a state of wakefulness. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He pushed Castiel’s hair, still damp from the pseudo-bath they had tried to give him, back and away from his face.

Castiel slowly opened his eyes, staring blankly, breathing slowly, lost.

“You’ve been out for a while.” Dean dabbed Castiel’s forehead again, watching with a worried brow as blue eyes tracked his movements, not really registering the actions. “How do you feel?”

Castiel stared at him, still confused, and then he went slack on the mattress with a slurred reply. “Hnn… hurts… n’m’cold…”

Dean offered a small smile. “I know, Cas. Sam's at the store now. He's gonna get you some meds, some clothes…” He set the rag aside again and pressed the back of his hand to Castiel's cheek. He was still so warm. “You're gonna be okay.”

Castiel leaned into the touch, blinking sluggishly as he started to melt back into the sheets. “Learned my lesson…” he breathed, his words followed immediately by a wet, rasping cough. “Won't disobey again… promise…”

Dean pressed his lips together and sighed. “I know, buddy.” He looked over the stitches and bruises and vacant, cloudy eyes with an ache in his chest. “Believe me, I know.”

* * *

Sam sipped his tea and then set it aside, turning the page in his book and settling down for the night. Dean was at a bar—he hadn’t said that was where he was going, but Sam knew—and Castiel was going on twenty-seven hours of unconsciousness and incoherency.

“Hnn…”

Sam reached out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder, still looking at his book, expecting the touch to soothe the angel back into sleep like it had every other time for the past hour and a half. If anything, Sam thought maybe Castiel would mistake him for ‘Balthazar’ again and slur some incoherent and gut-wrenching questions about his punishment.

Instead, Castiel tensed.

Sam looked up from his book to find wide eyes staring at him in terror, clearer and more focused than Sam had seen them since before he started the end of the world.

“Woah, hey.” Sam set his book aside, placing it facedown to hold his page. “Hey, it's okay.”

Castiel shifted, clearly trying to pull away and sit up but capable of neither. “You…” He swallowed hard and started breathing faster. “Did you—have you opened the Cage?”

Sam felt a stab of guilt and drew his hand back, bowing his head slightly in concession. “Yes, I did.” He averted his eyes but quickly brought them back, trying to gauge Castiel’s reaction.

Castiel began struggling, growing more panicked with every second he couldn’t sit up.

“Castiel, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Sam held up his hands slightly, putting as much sincerity into his words and tone and face as he could. “I did it with the best intentions, and I know that doesn’t make it okay, but I wouldn’t—” Sam stopped suddenly, realizing what Castiel was so afraid of. “Lucifer isn't in me, I swear. I opened the Cage, but something got me out before he could possess me.” He wet his lips, sympathy creasing his brow. “You're sick, okay? You’re sick, and you’re badly hurt. I just want to help.” He almost said Dean did, too, but he wasn’t sure if Castiel would believe Dean was still around.

Sam couldn’t believe it himself, and he bore witness to it every day.

“I… you’re not… you didn’t…?” Castiel blinked and frowned, disoriented. “I… I don’t…” He swallowed hard and struggled to breathe evenly, trying to sit up again and dissolving into moans as he clutched at his stomach.

“Easy, easy. Don’t hurt yourself.” Sam scooted his chair a little closer to the bedside, speaking as softly and nonthreateningly as possible. “What's the last thing you remember?”

“I…” Castiel squinted, breath hitching. “I was… being reeducated… it was… it went on forever…” He shook his head slowly, half-lidded eyes wandering across the ceiling in search of a memory. “I thought this was over.”

Sam tilted his head slightly. “You thought what was over?”

“ _This,_ ” Castiel insisted, as if that explained everything.

“Okay.” Sam rubbed his hands on his jeans, pressing his lips together briefly. “Do you… remember being moved to an abandoned hospital?”

Castiel blinked sluggishly and gave a slight headshake, chapped lips struggling to form his whispery words. “You can’t really think… after all this time…” He wet his lips and struggled to keep speaking, eyes drifting over to stare at Sam. “You’ve done this one before.” He stopped then, a pained expression twisting his features as a quiet whine rose in his throat. “ _Please_ … don’t make me do this again.”

Sam didn’t know what had happened to make Castiel go from cooperation to resistance, but he shook his head as emphatically as he could and did his best to smooth things over. “No, Castiel. No, this—this is all very real.” Sam moved from the chair to the bed and grabbed the rag Dean had left on the nightstand, cautiously running the cloth over Castiel’s forehead and cheeks.

Castiel flinched, but he didn’t pull back. That was good.

Sam wet his lips. “Dean and I, uh, we were hunting a witch—”

“I’ve heard that one before, too…” Castiel screwed his eyes shut and slowly shook his head, his features twisted with such a tired, defeated, _miserable_ pain. “You’ve used… _every_ scenario… every… single…” He pressed his lips together, but tears still rolled down his cheeks, and his chest still jumped with the repressed sobs. “Please, I can’t _do_ this anymore.”

“Castiel, listen to me.” Sam wiped the salty cheeks and then pressed his rag to the feverish forehead again. “Before you passed out, Dean and I were talking to you. Do you remember what we said?”

Castiel thought about it for a few seconds—or at least, that’s what Sam hoped he was doing while sitting in silence—and then he shook his head, croaking out a weak, “No…”

“We were talking about human things; things angels would never understand. Things I don’t even think you understand.” Sam pulled the rag away and dipped it in the water again, flashing a smile when he looked back and Castiel’s eyes were open. “Things like fireworks and tattoos and popcorn.”

Castiel sniffed quietly. “I don’t remember… I don’t… but…”

“That's okay,” Sam said softly, not letting the doubt take root. “We’ll help you figure it out. But the point is that you’re safe.”

Castiel squinted up at Sam, panting. “We…? Wait, you said…” He swallowed hard, wetting his chapped, split lips. “D… Dean? He’s here, too?”

 _Oh, crap._ At least Castiel didn't seem any more or less upset. _Of course, I’m still not entirely sure he believes this is real._ But maybe Dean being with Sam in their current ‘scenario’ was something unfamiliar, something that would seem like it could be reality.

Sam cleared his throat softly, feeling a tickle at the mere sound of Castiel’s rasping. “Yeah, Dean’s here, too. He's at a bar right now, but he's here, you know, in the city.” He dipped the rag in water again and reached out to dab Castiel's forehead, stopping short when Castiel flinched away. “Do you… want me to get Dean instead?”

Castiel shook his head vigorously, eyes screwed shut while one arm came up to hover between his head and Sam. “No, this… this isn’t…” He tried to sit up again, but all he managed to do was twist his face in pain and drop his arm to clutch helplessly at his stitches.

“Hey, shh, shh…” Sam carefully closed the remaining distance and ran the cool cloth over Castiel's skin, shaking his head with a tender smile. “Dean's not angry with you, Castiel. Back at the hospital, you kept saying… well, you said a lot. But… Dean’s not angry with you.”

How could he be? How could either of them be? It was a lot easier to understand Castiel's blind devotion once they got to see how far Heaven would go to get it.

It wasn’t devotion at all; it was indoctrination.

But Castiel only shook his head, choking out a bitter, mirthless laugh between quiet sobs. “Now I know you're lying.” He laughed again, tears sliding down his cheeks. It was the only time Sam had ever heard him laugh, and yet it was the farthest from happy Sam had ever seen him.

“Cas…” Sam sighed softly and wiped away the tears, unsure of how to respond; unsure of what would help and what would harm. “Why don't you get some more sleep?”

Castiel moaned quietly and shook his head, but the movement was weak, and he closed his eyes all the same. His hand twitched against the sheets, fingers curling like he was trying to grab on to the fabric.

“Easy, Cas. Just go back to sleep. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Sam opened his mouth with another meaningless yet soothing phrase on his tongue, but he thought of something at the last second. “Are you in pain?”

Castiel nodded, turning his head away and keeping his eyes shut tight.

“Okay, let me get some medicine.” Sam got to his feet while Castiel whimpered, crossing the room to the bag of items he had picked up from the drugstore. He grabbed the Children’s Advil—he had figured at the time of purchase that Castiel wouldn't be accustomed to swallowing pills, and that was still looking pretty likely—and then he walked back over. “Here.”

Castiel looked at the bottle for a fraction of a second and then turned his head away again, another whine rising in his throat.

“It’s just medicine,” Sam soothed, shaking the bottle as he tried to figure out how to get Castiel sitting up without moving him too much. “Hopefully, it'll make you feel better, and even if it doesn't, it won't hurt you, okay?”

Castiel just kept shaking his head, so Sam set about getting the medicine ready as quickly as possible. He had figured out what dosage to give earlier, so all he had to do was wrestle the cap off and start fighting with the seal, both of which were more difficult than they needed to be.

“This is gonna help, okay?” Sam tossed the trash aside and poured out the appropriate amount, setting both the tiny cup and the bottle on the nightstand. “Come on, sit up a little for me.”

Castiel tried to roll away, pushing against Sam’s hands without actually looking at what he was doing. “No…”

“Shh, it’s gonna help, Cas. It’s gonna make you feel better.” Sam carefully got a hold on Castiel and pulled him into a sitting position. “Easy, easy… it’s okay.”

Castiel whined and gave the medicine an unhappy onceover.

Sam slipped onto the bed behind Castiel, pulling one leg onto the mattress and folding it under him. “It’s not bad, Castiel. It won’t hurt.” He rubbed Castiel’s left arm with one hand while the other went for the medicine. “It doesn’t taste good, but it’s not terrible, either. Not like cough syrup.”

Castiel turned his head as far as he could, pressing his lips together with a quiet whine.

“Castiel, please.” Sam set the little cup back down so he wouldn’t spill it. “At least give it a try.” He put his free hand on Castiel’s right arm and started rubbing gently. “That’s what Dad always said. We had to at least try, and if we hated the medicine so much that we preferred to be sick, we could choose to be sick instead.” Unless it was something serious, like a high-grade fever, which was what Castiel had, but that wasn’t the point. “I usually opted for medicine. Dean refused every drug under the sun that didn’t come in pill form.”

Castiel started breathing a little easier, and he slowly turned his head to look at the medicine.

“Come on,” Sam coaxed. “Just give it a try. It’s not gonna hurt you, Castiel, I promise.”

Castiel ran his tongue over his lips and sniffed, and then he nodded his head.

Sam concealed his sigh of relief and picked up the medicine again, holding the cup to Castiel’s lips. “The best way to do it is to take it all at once and get it over with.”

Castiel shifted his weight and wet his lips again, and then he put his mouth on the cup and let Sam pour the contents into his mouth. He swallowed and then smacked his lips, face twisting up at the odd taste.

But he looked more curious and confused than upset, and that was a good thing in Sam’s book.

“There we go,” Sam encouraged, setting the empty cup aside. “I told you it wouldn’t taste all that bad.” He gingerly eased out from under Castiel. “Do you want some water to wash it down?”

Without Sam to support him, Castiel all but fell back into the pillows. He looked up at Sam for a moment, blinking a few times, and then he shook his head.

 _He’s probably afraid I’ll put something in it._ But forcing Castiel wouldn’t do anything but cause further distress. Sam only pressed the medicine issue because of how high his fever was. Water was important, too, but… they could wait a little longer.

“Okay.” Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened a new text. “Go ahead and get some sleep. One of us will be here when you wake up again.”

Castiel gave Sam a miserable look and shook his head.

Sam nodded in return, his expression solemn. “Yes, Castiel. We will.”

 Castiel stared back with half-lidded eyes, and less than five minutes later, he was out cold.

It took even less time for Sam to open up his computer and connect to the internet.

> severe ptsd help
> 
> _Select one to refine your search_
> 
> severe ptsd help for families

Sam never clicked a button so fast.

* * *

“This might be the gayest thing I’ve ever done.” Dean spread a little more chapstick over Castiel’s lips, pressing his thumb to the corner of Castiel’s mouth so the skin actually stayed in place. “Like, seriously. Ever.”

Sam sighed, and Dean could _hear_ the eyeroll when he spoke. “Dean, if you tackled a guy to the ground in a fistfight and accidentally touched him, you would call it gay.”

Dean’s face screwed up in confusion, eyes still focused on the bleeding lips he was trying to repair. “How would I tackle a guy _without_ touching him?”

“Exactly,” Sam drawled.

It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes, the sound of rustling bags indicating Sam was going through everything Dean had brought home from the store. _I probably bought the wrong brand of something._ He almost snorted. _Whatever. It’s his own stupid fault for forgetting it in the first place._

Dean sighed and snapped the cap on the yellowish-orange tube, setting it on the nightstand. He still couldn’t believe Sam had gone out of his way to get blankets and pillows—to make the trip to Bobby’s more comfortable—and then went ahead and forgot to get _antibiotic_ _cream_.

“You got the Burt’s Bees chapstick, right?” Sam pulled out the box as he was asking the question, causing him to taper off at the end. “Oh. Cool.”

Dean snorted, raising his voice about an octave and a half. “My name’s Sam Winchester, and I use only the _finest_ of chapsticks, made from beeswax and peppermint and _fairy_ _dust_ , to nourish my supple lips.”

Sam chucked the empty box at Dean’s head, but it fell extremely short—Dean laughed—so Sam followed it up with the not-so-empty one beside it. Dean did not laugh, but he did get smacked square in the face.

“Ouch! Geeze, what did you—” Dean grabbed the box from the floor and held it up, incredulous. “Did you throw Soup Secrets at me?”

Sam only laughed and got back to digging through the bags. “Did you seriously get three tubes of Neosporin?”

Dean chucked the box of soup packets back across the room and gestured to Castiel. “Every time we change his bandages, we’re gonna use a whole freaking tube.” He snorted. “You forgot to get any at all, and you’re gonna judge me for getting too much? I don’t think so.”

Sam laughed softly and glanced up from his exploration, expression growing somber as his eyes lingered on Castiel’s sleeping form. “How are those looking, by the way?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders and looked back at the sleeping figure on the bed. “I don’t want to take them off until we’re ready to change them, but the little bits I can see look alright.” He reached out and grabbed the edge of a gauze piece, lifting it up and peeking in again even as he said it. “I mean, they look alright given the circumstances. They still look painful.”

In the end, they had given Castiel 359 stitches. Not all in the same place, of course, but it was still an overwhelming amount. Most of them were on his chest and the soft tissue of his stomach, but his arms and legs had not come out unscathed by any means; one of the gashes in his left leg needed thirty-one stitches all on its own. His feet were so damaged—by the broken glass from the hospital or earlier torture, they couldn’t tell—they wound up wrapping both after they tended to the individual wounds. One stitch here, three there, two here, one there, and all of it wrapped in gauze to protect the weakly bound lacerations.

_Oh, Cas…_

Dean smoothed down the bandages again and grabbed the comforter, pulling it up to Castiel’s chin and brushing his hair back out of his face. Dean ran a light finger over the stitches holding together the halves of a cut along Castiel’s hairline. “I don’t like how this one is holding.” He pulled his lip between his teeth and chewed lightly, tilting his head to get a better look at the wound. “Toss me the superglue.”

“Think fast.”

Dean looked up in time to see yet another item flying at his face, but that time around, he caught it. He popped off the cap and leaned down, lining up the tip of the applicator with the cut and squeezing a thin line across Castiel’s forehead on the upper, left-hand side.

Sam walked over to the bed and turned the beside chair around, straddling the seat and folding his arms on the back. “Dean, how are we gonna convince him that he’s out of… wherever he was? I mean, I’ve been researching PTSD, and I’m gonna keep digging, but… no human has ever been through the kind of torture he has.”

Dean sighed, watching the gauze-wrapped chest gently rise and fall. “I know.”

How could they possibly combat Castiel’s trauma? They didn’t know how long he had been… wherever he had been… but he had said Heaven tried every scenario. That had to be a long time, and if everything they could say or do had already been said or done in some cruel fakeout, how were they supposed to convince Castiel that he was safe? That they were really them, and it was really different, and things were really going to be okay? Duration alone made Castiel’s physical torture the worst case ever recorded, and as for the mental aspect, well… even in Hell, Dean knew who the bad guys were. They never looked like Sam, and he never trusted them. With Cas, it was a whole different ballgame, different nightmare, different pain.

“I had a thought.” Sam wet his lips, thoughtful eyes lingering on Castiel’s sleeping face. “We were able to snap him out of it, at least a little bit, when we talked about human things. But not specifically _our_ things.” Sam took a breath and looked at Dean, an uncertain look on his face. “I was thinking… maybe we should focus less on convincing him that we’re really us and focus more on convincing him that this is really Earth.”

Dean’s initial reaction was to say, ‘no way,’ but then Dean started to think. He pursed his lips and slowly started nodding his head. “I think I see what you’re saying.” He thought for another second to get it straight in his head. “Heaven pretend to be us… but that means they were imitating us and our lifestyles specifically.”

Sam brightened and extended an open hand to Dean. “Exactly. We don’t live normal lives. And any angel who took a vessel certainly didn’t. They wouldn’t know about average people, living average lives, being safe and normal and weird in that way only humans can be.”

Dean nodded again, still rolling the idea around in his head. “If we can get him to realize this really is Earth… then he’ll realize we’re really us by default.”

Sam smirked triumphantly and gave Dean a nod.

Dean leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. “So, let’s brainstorm some human things here.”

Sam drummed his fingers on his forearm, pursing his lips as they both entered into a thoughtful silence. “Well…” he let a few seconds pass, still wearing his thinking face, “…maybe it would help if we had a physical object. You know, something he can hold. Like… well, this wouldn’t work, but cards.”

Dean frowned. “Cards?”

“Yeah, like greeting cards.” Sam nodded in Castiel’s direction. “Angels wouldn’t understand that, and it’s something we’ve never done. It’s just a piece of fancy cardstock with some cliché words on it, but people give and get them all the time; they save them in a shoebox somewhere to look at ten years down the road.” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“No, no, I think I follow.” Dean looked at Castiel’s sleeping face and tried to board Sam’s train of thought. “Maybe could get him a good luck charm. You know, lucky rabbit’s foot, eight ball… something like that. No real power, just a trinket. People do that.” He frowned. “I guess it’s still related to superstitions, which, in our line of work, are generally accurate… but maybe lucky socks? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an actual cursed pair of socks. Or just a random thing. He can have a lucky trench coat or something.”

Sam nodded in agreement, growing slightly more animated as the idea started to snowball. “Yes, yes, exactly! Maybe we could get him a souvenir from whatever town we’re in. He travels a lot, maybe we could help him start some kind of, I don’t know, scrapbook.”

“Scrapbook?” Dean echoed, an objection already rising in his throat, but he once again cut himself off, because it really did make sense. “Pictures, maps, ticket stubs, stickers… things angels wouldn’t collect, things _we_ don’t collect, but things people like to hang onto for sentimental reasons.”

Sam stood up and dragged his chair over to the motel desk, sitting down and opening his laptop. “I’m gonna start a list and look up some more ideas online.”

“Good idea.” Dean looked back at Castiel, still rolling the idea around in his head, trying to put together pieces of a plan. _We’re gonna get you sorted out, Cas._

Castiel laid there, silent and unmoving.

_I promise._

* * *

It was a total of five days and seventeen hours before Castiel actually woke up, and when he did, it wasn’t anything like the slow fade that had been bringing him in and out of consciousness up to that point. It was sudden and jarring and left him in a haze of panic.

“Cas?” Dean extended a hand and slowly approached the angel who had just bolted upright in bed.

Castiel startled, head whipping around to look at Dean, eyes wide and alive with fear. He looked down at himself, saw he was in the bed, looked around, processed the room, and then looked back at Dean with twice as much terror as before.

“Cas, it’s okay.” Dean continued to hold his hand out in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “It’s okay, Cas. Don’t—”

Castiel tried to get out of bed, pushing against the mattress with one hand while the other grappled with the sheets, panting all the while. Dean rushed forward and took Castiel by the shoulders as gently as he could.

“Hey, Cas, it’s okay. Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Dean tried to push Castiel down a little. “Hey, hey, hey, listen to me, you gotta lay down. It’s okay, man. It’s okay.”

Castiel shook his head and grappled weakly with Dean’s wrists, tears filling his eyes as he tried and failed to push Dean’s hands away. “Not… not this again, please…”

“Shh, calm down.” Dean didn’t apply any pressure, but he didn’t move his hands away, letting Castiel grip them as tight as he wanted. “Take a deep breath, and we’ll figure this out, just… don’t hurt yourself.” He flashed a weak smile. “Okay?”

Castiel stopped pushing on Dean’s arms, a hesitant hope flickering in his eyes. He wet his lips and came to an abrupt halt, wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah, that probably doesn’t taste too good.” Dean kept a smile on his face, hands releasing Castiel’s shoulders but not moving away. “We got you some chapstick. I think it’s some kinda peppermint flavor… so it probably burns or tingles a bit. But it’s really good for your skin; figured it might get rid of some of those cracks and cuts around your mouth.”

Castiel pressed his lips together, eyes flickering downward as he experimented with the substance. He rubbed his lips together in a few different directions, and then he licked them again, getting the same unhappy look on his face.

“You okay?” Dean slowly pulled his hands away and eased himself into the bedside chair, resting his hands on his lap in plain sight. “You wanna talk?”

Castiel blinked a few times, looking Dean over warily, and then he looked around the room again. He took in the details, stopping to stare from time to time, as if trying to remember something.

Dean was tempted to press—he wanted to know Cas was _okay_ —but he kept his mouth shut. Castiel needed time and space. Dean would give that to him.

“I…” Castiel blinked slowly and looked at Dean, face screwed up with confusion. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a motel in Kansas City, Kansas.” Dean glanced out the window even as he said it, having wondered more than once if the bustling city would help or hinder. “We found you on the Missouri side, and we wanted to get across a state line, just in case anything got reported.”

Castiel blinked slowly. “State…?”

Dean latched onto the opportunity to explain something human. “Uh, different states have different laws and different police departments. So, if something got reported in Kansas City, Missouri, no one in Kansas City, Kansas, would be investigating that report.” He rubbed the back of his neck and went on explaining. “Even if two things happened in the same state, if they were in different jurisdictions within the state, they probably wouldn’t get connected. It’s just safer to keep crossing lines when you’re avoiding the law.” Unless you screwed it up and got the feds on your tail, but that was a whole other can of worms, and it was better left unopened.

Castiel nodded slowly, taking in the information and seeming to relax just a little. He looked around the motel room again and slowly started sinking back into the sheets, his fatigue catching up with him.

_He’s more coherent than he’s been since we found him. I thought he might actually stay awake for a little bit…_

Dean’s thoughts were derailed when Castiel realized he was laying down and jolted up again, immediately clutching his stomach in agony.

“Cas, you gotta stop—” Dean was on his feet, just barely able to keep himself from pushing Castiel down again, “—stop trying to get up. You’re gonna rip out your stitches.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t—I don’t have stitches.” Castiel shoved the blankets away and moved away from Dean, trying to get to the other side of the bed. “I don’t have stitches, and you aren’t him, and this isn’t—”

“Cas, I need you to listen to me, okay?” Dean stepped closer. “I need—”

Castiel was getting closer to the other side of the bed.

“Cas, stop!” Dean reached out to grab him, but it was too late.

Castiel tumbled off the bed and hit the floor with a thud and a moan. Dean darted around the bed, by Castiel’s side in a split second, and he did his best to gingerly lift Castiel into a sitting position. “Please, man. You gotta stop.” Dean looked over Castiel’s body, over the tinge of red soaking into the bandage on Castiel’s right thigh, and silently cursed. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. You _did_ hurt yourself. Even if you think it’s fake, it hurts, right? So, just…”

“It _is_ fake.” Castiel took a shaky breath, his entire body trembling. “This isn’t real. This isn’t…” He sucked down a lungful of air and let it back out in a harsh but silent sob. “This is just a new tactic. You’ve just—you’ve just—”

Dean knew he had to put a stop to it when Castiel let out another sob and his nose started to bleed. “Let’s get you back in bed, okay? You wanna be a skeptic, that’s fine, but be a skeptic in bed.” He paused, and then tacked on an earnest, “Please.”

Castiel did nothing for several seconds, and then he started to move his feet, like he was trying to get his legs beneath him. Dean let out a sigh of relief and grabbed Castiel around the torso, pulling him up and sitting him on the edge of the bed. Castiel watched Dean with labored breaths and cautious eyes, dragging himself to the half of the bed that wasn’t covered by the blanket. He kept his eyes on Dean as he moved, and when he collapsed on the mattress, he uttered a quiet, “I won’t forgive you for this.”

Dean crinkled his brow. “Won’t forgive me for what?”

“ _This,_ ” Castiel repeated, as if that explained everything. “It would take some time, but I could forgive the reeducation. I could. But this…” His lip trembled, a mixture of anger and heartrending grief flickering in his eyes. “Making me… want this so badly… that I don’t—I don’t care—” His tears came faster, but his eyes were burning with hatred, fingers curling through the sheets. “I want to be on Earth so desperately that I don’t—care that this isn’t real. Because anything is better than—you made me—” He sobbed and tried to reel himself in, but his breath was already short, and the lack of oxygen made his eyes water even more. “I was alone—for so long—that I don’t care— _who_ it is, I just—I just want to talk to somebody. I just—” He grit his teeth, tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping to the mattress. “I just don’t want to be alone anymore, and _you_ did that to me, and you used _his_ face and _his_ words to—” Like something in him snapped, Castiel’s entire body flipped from rage to desperation. “Please, I don’t—don’t make me want this when we both know I can never have it.” He screwed his eyes shut and screamed, “Please!”

Dean stood as still as a statue, stuck in a state of shock and internally scrambling for some idea of what to do. Dean wanted to put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, but touch seemed to set Castiel off; he wanted to say something, but he had no idea what.

“Cas…” Dean did the only thing he could think of and grabbed the blankets, pulling them up to Castiel’s shoulders. “I don’t… I don’t know how to…”

What could he say? Everything would sound insincere if it came from Castiel’s tormentors, but every attempt to prove he really was himself would be interpreted as proof of the opposite.

“You gotta… lay on your back.” Dean didn’t know why that was what came out, but he pointed to Castiel and rolled with it. “If you lay on your side, it won’t… you just can’t do that. You gotta lay on your back.”

Castiel stared blankly at Dean for several moments, and then he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. “I hate you,” he breathed. “I hate you.”

Dean sat down in the chair by the bed and rubbed his face with his hands, heaving a sigh of helpless frustration. _Yeah, me too._

Dean stayed like that until Sam came back, and then he disappeared into a corner bar and tried to numb himself to the fact that his best friend was living a nightmare and he couldn’t do a single thing to wake him up.

* * *

Sam looked up from his book when he heard shuffling footsteps in the hall, an excited flicker igniting in his chest. Bobby was wheelchair-bound, and Dean was deep in the throes of a much-needed sleep. Seconds passed in silence, which was then broken by more footsteps, and then Castiel’s hunched, bedheaded figure came around the corner.

“Hey, Castiel.” Sam offered a small but warm smile, dog-earing the page he had been on before closing his book. “How are you feeling?”

Castiel started to look around, eyes growing progressively wider as his breathing quickened. “You moved me.” He blinked rapidly. “I remember this place. Bobby Singer lives here.” He coughed a few times, looking around some more, and then he regarded Sam with narrowed eyes. “You haven’t used this one in a very long time.”

Sam wet his lips, briefly considering an argument, but he ultimately decided to work on the ‘prove this is reality’ front. “Castiel, can I sh—” Sam stopped halfway through standing up when Castiel startled and ducked back behind the doorframe. Sam quickly held his hands up to show he had no ill intent. “It’s okay. I just wanted to show you something.”

Castiel’s hand slipped around the door frame, the movement as slow and silent as he could make it. He gripped the wood so tight his knuckles turned white. “What do you want to show me?” he rasped.

Sam flashed a weak smile and held up a finger. “Let me get it.” He took a few steps toward the plastic bag on the floor, keeping eyes on Castiel at all times. “Wanna come sit on the floor with me?”

Castiel tensed a bit more—if that was even possible—and watched Sam with wary eyes. “Why do we need to be on the floor?”

Sam offered another smile and grabbed the bag, sliding it over in front of the couch. “I just think it will be easier to spread out the things I want to show you. But, uh, if you want to sit on the couch, we can. It’s up to you.”

Castiel tried to look at the bag but ultimately couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sam. He approached slowly, forcing a relaxed composure, probably having no idea how obvious it was that he was terrified.

“We can sit on the floor.”

“Okay.” Sam smiled.

It was almost imperceptible, but Castiel let out a little breath.

Sam sat cross-legged on the floor and patted the carpet next to him. “Come on. Sit with me.”

Castiel moved again, just as tense and skittish as before, but he managed to seat himself on the floor next to Sam. Every movement was slow, jerking, and accentuated by a wince.

“Do you want some more medicine? I still have some…”

Castiel shook his head slightly. “No. Thank you.”

“Okay.” Sam smiled and pulled the biggest item out of the bag, opening the box before he even started explaining. “So, Dean thought it was girly, but I thought it was pretty cool.” He pulled out the colorful book as he spoke, discarding the packaging. “It’s a journal of sorts, but it has some prompts and specific areas for specific things.”

Castiel stared at the colorful book in confusion, but the tiniest amount of fear had left his features, and that made it worth it in Sam’s mind.

“I thought you could use it as a travel journal. It’s kinda like scrapbooking, which is why Dean thinks it’s girly, but… I don’t know, scrapbooking is cool, too.” Sam smiled a bit nervously, wondering if anything he was saying made sense to Castiel. “We were just in Kansas City, which is a relatively well-known place. So…” He dug around in the bag again and pulled out a bumper sticker he had grabbed in a convenience store. “You take this, and you take something from the trip—like a room keycard or a ticket stub—and you place it on the page however you want. Then, in these areas,” he indicated with his finger, “you can write down a bit about what happened. So… maybe something about how it’s the first motel you ever spent a night in. Just… whatever’s unusual or sticks out to you. Anything you want to remember.” He turned the page and, after seeing the way Castiel’s eyes followed the movement, he began to leaf through. “You can do a page for every place, or make the whole thing an in-depth record of one place, or… whatever you want, really.”

Castiel stared down at the book with wide eyes, and while he was plainly confused, he reached out with hesitant hands and slowly took the book from Sam. He looked at the pages for a moment, lips slightly parted, his struggle to understand written plainly on his face.

Castiel looked at the sticker, then, examining it for a moment. Then he looked at the plastic bag.

“I, uh, I got you some more stickers,” Sam explained, digging out the tablets. “Uh… they aren’t for a specific place or thing, they’re more like…” uplifting, self-esteem-boosting, cliché quotes and phrases any teenage girl would most definitely thrive on, “…sayings and things.”

Castiel squinted at the booklet and started to flip the sheets of stickers one by one, scanning the words and colors. “Make today amazing.” He looked up. “What is the purpose of a sticker that tells you something?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Well… sometimes you forget. Or humans do, anyway. You get bogged down in whatever you’re doing, you’re… stressed out and distracted and… sometimes, you just need a little reminder…” he skimmed the page and pointed out one sticker in particular, “…that it always seems impossible until it’s done. Oh!” He held up a finger and dug through the bag again, pulling out another booklet. “I also got this, which has stickers for every date telling you what celebratory day it is.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side and looked at the stickers.

Sam cleared his throat and started leafing through the pages. “Like, today is September 4th, so…” He found the sticker and smiled, pointing it out to Castiel. “September 4th is Eat an Extra Dessert Day. Which means tomorrow… is Be Late for Something Day.”

Castiel slowly reached his hands out, tentatively taking the booklet from Sam and paging through. “I don’t understand… Flower Day… National Nut Day… Housewives Day…” He shook his head. “What is the purpose of these days?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “There isn’t one. It’s just fun. Honestly, a lot of these days are pretty obscure, so many people don’t know about them. But it’s fun to have an excuse to celebrate your favorite things. For example, May 15th is National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day. I love chocolate chip cookies, so I use the day as an excuse to buy and consume an entire pack of them—” sometimes two or three, but Castiel didn’t need to know that, “—even though I probably shouldn’t.”

Castiel turned the booklet over in his hands, and then he looked at the journal again. He picked up the first book of stickers and looked between the two packs. He looked at the journal. He looked at the stickers. Back at the journal. He looked at Sam, face awash with confusion and vulnerability and, somewhere in the deepest shades of blue, hope.

“I don’t understand.”

Sam flashed a small smile, wanting to seem sincere but not overly serious. “I know you’re having a hard time believing you’re out of… wherever you were.” He gestured to the journal. “This is the kind of thing that makes humans… human. Things angels don’t get.” He wet his lips. “And, you know, I thought maybe it could help you… I don’t know, get a little control back.”

Castiel looked back at the book. “How can this help me regain c…” He pressed his lips together, eyes misting up.

 _He can’t even say he wants control over his own life. He’s afraid to say it out loud._ Sam shrugged his shoulders with another little smile. “Because it’s all you. You can put the stickers wherever you want, if you want to use them at all. You can write whatever you want, or nothing at all. It can be neat and orderly, or everything could be overlapped and crowded, or both. You could organize pages by color, or by topic, or keep it totally random. You can celebrate the special days, or you can ignore them. You could even try making up one of your own, if you wanted. I mean, if you spread the word and insist something long enough, it’ll catch on, and you might actually make a new celebratory day.”

Castiel looked down at the book again, lightly running his fingers over the lines and colors and shapes. He was tense, jaw clenched and hand trembling slightly. He looked over at the sticker sheets and started to look through them again.

“This is all mine?”

Sam nodded. “Yup. It’s yours, and it’s as private as you want. You don’t have to show it to anyone unless you want to. Not me, not Dean, not Bobby.” He gently nudged Castiel on the arm, ignoring the flinch it caused. “Hey. You know that room you woke up in?”

Castiel nodded stiffly.

“That’s Bobby’s guest room, and it’s, uh, it’s your room for now. Until you heal up some.” Then, as much as it pained Sam, he continued. “If you want to take this stuff back to your room and look through it alone, that’s fine.”

Castiel looked at Sam like he was waiting for a trap to spring. His look didn’t change at all, but he slowly gathered the items and put them back in the plastic bag, watching Sam the entire time. He grabbed the bag and pulled it closer, onto his lap, and then against his chest.

Sam just kept on smiling, heart aching in his chest. “It’s really okay.” He made a small gesture with his hand like he was shooing Castiel out of the room. “Go on.”

Castiel got his feet beneath him and slowly rose up, wrapping his arms around the bundle of plastic and crafts. He looked at Sam for a long moment, swallowed, and then started making his way out of the room.

Sam waved slightly, hoping the journal would do something— _anything_ —to pull Castiel a little further out of the abyss. “Night, Cas.”

Castiel stopped in the hallway and stared for a second. “Goodnight… Sam.” He took a step and stopped again. “Thank you.” He darted out of sight before Sam could even open his mouth to respond.

Sam wet his lips and heaved a sigh, pressing his fingers to his forehead. _What are we doing?_ He gathered the trash from the floor and stood up, taking it out to the kitchen. _He’s a wreck. He’s subdued one day, angry the next, and always scared. Just—just so scared._

Sam braced his arms on either side of the sink and bowed his head. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix things with Dean, he didn’t know how to avert the Apocalypse he had started, he didn’t know how to help Bobby get his autonomy back, and he didn’t know how to fix Castiel.

It seemed the only things he did know were that he didn’t know anything and he was hopelessly outmatched.

 _It always seems impossible until it’s done, huh? Maybe_ I _need one of those journals._

* * *

“Cas!”

Dirty knees hit the ground, followed closely by bloody hands and a wad of reddish-pink saliva. Sweat dripped to the ground, soaking into the dirt as battered, half-bandaged feet scraped along the earth and moss and stones, scrabbling and gouging until they were right-side up again.

“Cas, please!”

Two distinct, alternating voices split the air, underscored by rapid footfalls, rustling leaves, and the racing, _thundering_ pulse that coursed through his veins. Dry air scraped down the walls of his throat, a shift in the trees let a flood of burning light through the canopy, the land beneath his feet was different with every step.

“Cas, come back! You’re hurt, man!”

“Castiel, please, let us help you!”

Bark and twigs burned him, leaving scratches on his skin that stung in the open air. Sunshine pierced the canopy of trees at different angles, catching his eye and sending a spire of blinding pain straight through his optic nerve to his brain stem. Dirt inconspicuously dipped, turning a simple step into an agonizing twist of muscle and ligaments.

Impact. Pain. Fear.

_They stopped calling. They could be anywhere now._

Skin, raw and bleeding, shifted against rocks and dirt, crimson fingers and broken nails clawing for purchase. Bile spewed from his mouth, burning the lining of his throat and leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Eyes, wild and full of fear, screwed shut to keep out the light, blinded by even the smallest of rays. Feet found the ground again, moved a few steps, staggered, moved a few more steps, staggered again, and then turned sideways as his body collapsed.

_They’re quiet. I can’t hear them. Where are they? Where are they?_

He breathed for a moment and tried to grant himself the notion of peace, but it was a feeble lie and didn’t take.

He dug his fingers into the dirt and dragged his body to a nearby tree, clawing at the bark to pull himself into a sitting position. He slouched against the trunk, coughing up a mixture of blood, spit, and stomach acid. He panted. He wheezed. He hurt.

He was scared.

He knew he didn’t have much of a lead, so he tried to roll onto his side and push himself up. He had to keep running. He had to find a way out of the woods, and after that, a way out of Heaven. How, he had no idea, but he had to. He had to.

Crack.

He jolted, the snap of a nearby twig making him panic and giving him just enough juice to get about two feet off the ground; but that was as far as he made it before his legs were dropping him to the dirt again.

“Cas, it’s okay.”

He pushed an open palm against the dirt, but it did nothing. Someone— _Sam,_ his brain supplied, _Sam Winchester_ —put their hand on his back, triggering a frantic attempt to roll or crawl away. _Not Sam Winchester. Not Sam Winchester!_

“Castiel, it’s okay. Shh, it’s okay. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Please…”

He managed to get halfway rolled and push on Sam’s hands, barely able to make out Sam’s face before the blinding sun forced his eyes to close. His head pounded. His ears throbbed. His chest and back ached, resonating deep in his bones. He felt sick.

“Stay on your side, Cas.”

Fingers gently curled around his arm, another hand finding its way to his back.

“Shh, you’re safe. You’re safe, I promise.”

He sucked down air and rolled again, blurs of brown and black slurring into shades of green and blue as he tore away from Sam. He hit a tree and scrambled to his feet, pushing off a root and getting a few steps in before two arms wound around his waist. Blue and green blurred back to brown and black, legs kicking uselessly as he was pulled down to the dirt. He shoved, a flash of plaid appearing in his field of vision as he was pushed onto his back.

“Shh, Cas, please. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t let you run. You ripped your stitches, you screwed your feet right back to where they were when we found you, you’re throwing up…”

He blinked hard, struggling uselessly, wrestling with hands larger and significantly stronger than his own. He blinked again, his vision slowly sharpening despite the presence of black swirls and spots. He saw his hand hit Sam’s chest, saw it hit Sam’s chest again, and then saw Sam’s fingers curl around the wrist and push it back to the ground.

“Hey, just listen a second. You woke up with a headache—a bad one—and you thought you were back in Heaven. You thought they were doing something, okay? Something with a drill. But it’s not Heaven, Cas, it’s us—”

He saw his other hand go for Sam’s throat, saw his fingers dig in, saw Sam intercept him, and saw the frustrated look on Sam’s face. He was afraid of that look. He was afraid of Sam—not Sam, not Sam, _not Sam, not Sam—_ but he started kicking his legs anyway.

“Castiel, you’re going to hurt yourself more than you already have. Please, just let me explain. It was—it _is—_ just a headache. It’s not—Cas, you have to stop moving! _Stop!_ ”

There was pressure on his hips, a weight holding him down. He writhed anyway, staring at Sam’s hand on his wrist. His hand was bloody. Sam’s was, too, but only where their skin met. He managed to dig his knee into Sam’s back. There were a couple leaves on the ground around their hands, yellowish green in color, and a little rock was digging into the back of his forearm. He arched off the ground. It was early autumn, midday, cool but not uncomfortable. He clawed at the skin of Sam’s arm where he could reach. Beyond the trees, he knew there wasn’t a cloud in the sky for miles. All things considered, it was a lovely day.

He had acid in his mouth again.

“Easy, Cas. Easy, easy, easy.”

He saw the colors blur and change again as he was rolled onto his side, lungs gratefully expanding before his entire body compressed to rid himself of stomach fluid. He felt the weight move, felt it lift slightly, and the second his body stopped spasming, he was arching his back and striking Sam between the legs as hard he could.

He crawled forward a bit, vaguely aware of swearing and a hand grabbing his trench coat. Jacket? Shirt? Where was his trench coat? Why was he wearing jeans? What was _happening?_

“Cas!”

He let the flannel fall from his shoulders and took a few uneasy steps, staggering before taking off again. Between the pain and exhaustion and disorientation, he didn’t know how he was still running. He didn’t know how long it would last, either, but he suspected it wouldn’t be very long at all.

A break in the canopy—more _light,_ why was there so much _light?_ —and wavering balance forced him to fall against a tree, but he pushed off almost immediately.

Sam— _not Sam—_ grabbed him from behind, pinning one arm to his side in the process. “Castiel, _stop!_ ”

He cringed at the volume, throwing his arm back to hit Sam while kicking his legs to throw Sam off-balance. He repeated the movements again and again, hips twisting, back arching, neck snapping, head flying, _struggling;_ he just kept struggling. His throat started to hurt again, vibrating and sore.

“Castiel, it’s okay.”

Some kind of noise pounded against his ears, different from the voices, different from the sounds of his surroundings. Someone was upset. Someone was crying.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Stop struggling, Cas. Shh, it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you. Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Shh…”

Feet hit the dirt one last time, heavy and defeated, glued in place by his lack of will to go on fighting. Fingers idly scratched at Sam’s arm and side, but there was no point; they inflicted no pain, caused no distraction. He couldn’t do anything, not against his brothers, not after thousands of years of damage and drained Grace.

“Shh… shh… come on, sit down. Let’s sit down.”

Everything moved, colors blurring up higher while his body was lowered to the dirt and rolled onto its side. His eyes burned. His ears throbbed. His chest and back ached, resonating deep in his bones. He panted. He wheezed. He hurt.

He was scared. He was so, so scared.

“Shh… you’re okay, Castiel… you’re okay… shh…”

He blinked slowly, staring at the twig in front of his face. It was small, covered in moss, and pressed into the softened ground. Some distance beyond that, a tree lay on its side, creating a bridge of sorts over a small gorge and what looked like a creek.

All things considered, it was still a lovely day.

“Sam! Did you get him?”

“Yes! We’re over here!”

He let out a noise of protest despite himself, some kind of yelp or whine, his hand uncoordinatedly finding its way to his ear and pressing down. Everything was so loud. Everything was so bright.

“Shh, I know. I know. We’re gonna get you some medicine, okay?”

He turned his head slightly and, after a moment of searching, locked onto hazel eyes. He felt himself nod, heard his mind reprimand him for yielding, smelled a faint odor of spice from Sam’s jeans.

“Finally!”

“Shh!”

He threw his hand over his ear again, body trembling on the forest floor. _They got me._ With two angels present, and him in such a sorry state, there was no way he could get away again. He whimpered.

“Cas, it’s okay.”

“I’m here, you can get off him now. Maybe that’ll help.”

He shook his head, screwing his eyes shut. “Please…” He knew there was no point. It had never worked before, and he knew it never would, but he had to try. He had to say something. He was an angel. He was allowed to believe in miracles. He was allowed to believe in mercy. “Please, I can’t…”

“Cas, I swear to you, on Mom and Dad and Sammy and Bobby and everything I have ever cared about in my entire life; I _swear_ to you, you are not in Heaven anymore.”

He choked out a sob and turned his head, the tears on his cheeks dampening the dirt enough to smear it on his face. “Please… just kill me. Kill me, please, I can’t do this anymore.” He sucked down jagged, shuddering breaths, glued to the ground. “Please…”

“Cas…” Inhale. “What day is it?”

He coughed, body trembling. “Wh…?” He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, struggling to remember. “It’s…”

“Come on, Cas. You can do it. Deep down, you know this is real. What day is it? What’s the sticker for today?”

He inhaled a few times, trying to get enough air in his lungs to speak. “It’s T—Teddy Bear Day…” He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched. “No… no, no, no…”

“Cas, it’s okay. We’re gonna get you back to bed, fix up your stitches… Bobby’s making his world-famous chili. You’ve never had chili, have you?”

He shivered on the ground and let the hands prop him up, not resisting when arms wound around his upper body, pulling him in close. He smelled aftershave—Dean’s, not Sam’s, they were different—and sweat, and he could feel the amulet Dean always wore pressing into the side of his head.

“We’ll get you some Excedrin… see if a hot or cold pack can help you feel better.”

He moved his foot, feeling the scrap of twigs and acorns against the bleeding skin and soaked-through bandages. “M’not…?” he breathed, little bits and pieces of his rescue coming back—coming back in comprehensive, linear form.

Of course, they had done that before. They gave him a full six months with Sam and Dean and Bobby before tearing the rug out from under his feet. But… but no, in that scenario, they had only hunted and researched and traveled… they didn’t scrapbook or make chili or talk about Teddy Bear Day… so maybe it was real? Or maybe Heaven had just gotten better.

“Hey, you still with me?”

He twitched.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He shook his head no, but he immediately realized he wasn’t going to be able to pay attention to the repeat. His eyes burned with a new onslaught of tears, the very sound of Dean’s voice—maybe Dean, possibly Dean—sending him over the edge.

“I can’t do this anymore—I can’t—”

“Shh, Cas, come on. You were doing really good this morning. You called me Dean, and you worked on your journal, and you drank the tea Sam made you. Come on, buddy.”

He shook his head frantically, sending a pain throughout his head that churned his stomach with renewed vigor. “No, I can’t—I can’t figure it out, I can’t—I can’t think, I can’t—it might be, but—” his voice cracked, “—but it might not, and I can’t—I can’t take that chance, because I don’t—I can’t—” He shuddered, harsh sobs tearing their way out of his throat. “I’m scared.”

“Shh…” Arms pulled him a little closer, hands rubbed his back and shoulders. “Shh, I know, buddy. I know.”

“I’m scared…” He sobbed again, pressing into the warmth and familiarity, however fake it may or may not have been. “I’m so scared. I don’t wanna be alone anymore. Please, I don’t—I don’t—I’m so tired. I’m so scared, Dean, please, I’m scared!”

He sobbed again and again, letting Dean—might be Dean, could be Dean—hold him tight. His body was rocked a little, hands massaged his aching knees and shins, sweet nothings were murmured into his ear on a soft, soothing loop.

_I’m scared… I’m so scared…_

“Let’s get him out of here, Dean.”

“Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

That was the last thing he heard, and then he tumbled headlong into darkness, melting into Dean’s arms—please be Dean, _please_ be Dean—with a rattling sigh.

* * *

“Mmmm… why haven’t we ever made note of these days before?”

Sam kept his mouth closed around his straw, but he laughed all the same. He shrugged his shoulders and continued to suck on his chocolate milkshake. _Because you would have thought it was stupid before, but it’s helping Cas, so now it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread._

Castiel made an odd face and then sucked on his straw again. He made another face as he swallowed. “I think I can taste it. It has been a long time since I tried to eat or drink anything, but the last time I did, I could only taste the molecules.” He frowned slightly. “It must be because of how weak I am.”

Sam pulled his mouth off his straw. “Do you think that’s why you got a headache the other day?” He started sucking on the straw again.

“It could be. I… I don’t know.” Castiel stared at his milkshake long and hard. “I…” He wet his lips. “I don’t actually know if…”

Sam and Dean waited patiently, but Castiel seemed afraid of continuing.

Dean rested his arms on the table and leaned forward slightly. “Cas, whatever it is, you can tell us.” He lowered his head and grabbed his straw between his teeth.

Castiel shifted in place, wet his lips, and then sucked on his straw again. He didn’t say anything for several moments, eyes perpetually downcast, and then he took a little breath. “I don’t… know if I’m still an angel.”

Sam’s eyes widened, but he tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible. “You think Heaven did something to you?”

Castiel wet his lips. “I… don’t know, but…” He wet his lips again. “Nothing has come back yet. I still haven’t healed completely, I can’t use my powers, I need sleep and food, I get headaches…” He shook his head slowly.

Dean looked to Sam for help, his lips still fastened to his straw in a silent refusal to talk.

Sam cleared his throat and did his best. “Castiel… you were in Heaven for a very, very long time.” He took a breath, leaning forward slightly and trying to get Castiel to meet his eyes. “You were _tortured_ for a very long time. You’re… not going to recover from that in a couple weeks. Maybe not even a couple of months. And that’s okay.”

Castiel looked at Sam for a long moment, and then he looked down at his lap. He scratched at his hands and chewed on his lip, expression thoughtful.

“It might take a while for you to get back on your feet, is what we’re saying.” Sam gave him a warm smile. “And if you don’t get your mojo back, then we’ll help you cross that bridge when we get there.” He wet his lips and reached out, gently placing his hand on Castiel’s forearm. “That’s kind of another human thing that angels probably don’t get.”

Castiel looked at him curiously, head canting to the side.

“Endurance,” Sam explained. “You’re all pretty used to…” he snapped his fingers, “…and fixing things. Going the long way around doesn’t mean you aren’t going to get where you’re going eventually… it just means you have to wait a while.” He flashed another smile, a little warmer and brighter than the one before it. “You’ll get better, Cas.”

Castiel searched Sam’s eyes for a moment, and then he looked at Dean with confusion written on his features. He looked at Sam again, shaking his head. “Why… am I here?”

Sam furrowed his brow and looked to Dean for help, confused.

Dean caught the look and frowned at Castiel. “What do you mean?”

Castiel continued to shake his head and lowered his eyes to his lap, shame hunching his shoulders down slightly. “I lied to you. I used you. I helped Heaven use you.” He wet his lips. “When they…” He exhaled. “I surrendered to them. I went back on my decision to do the right thing, and I… I promised to obey orders, promised not to help you again. And without my powers, I have no way of paying you back; I’m useless to you.” He lifted his eyes for a fraction of a second, but he couldn’t look at either of them, and his gaze went back down. “So… why did you help me? Why didn’t you leave me in the hospital? Or why don’t you leave me now that I’m medically stable?”

“Cas, you’re our friend.” Dean shook his head. “You screwed up. So did Sam. So did I. We’ll make it right as best we can and do better next time.”

Sam couldn’t help but glance away the stinging reminder of his mistake.

“Sam is your brother, and Sam was trying to do something good.” Castiel managed to lift his eyes and look at Dean. “I can’t claim ignorance like many of the angels under me. I knew what I was doing.”

Sam reached out a hand and gently touched Castiel’s arm—something he had noticed Castiel preferred in ways of getting his attention—and ducked his head a little when Castiel tried to look away. “You also knew what would happen if you didn’t comply.” He was going out on a bit of a limb, but his assumption proved correct.

Castiel averted his eyes for a moment and then looked back, glancing between the brothers. “Perhaps. But I could have tried harder. I just… didn’t want to. I wanted to follow orders, so it was somebody else’s fault.” His face fell again, shame bowing his head. “By the time I made the right choice… the damage was done. And then… I recanted that choice. Many, many times.”

Sam thumbed the skin of Castiel’s arm, ducking down a little more to get a glimpse of Castiel’s eyes. “Castiel, you were tortured for longer than Dean or I will ever be alive. You did what you had to. You were just trying to make the pain stop.” He turned the gentle stroking to a nudge and gave a small smile when Castiel looked his way. “And if that’s not enough, then the fact that they were empty words should be. You’re here with us, helping us… being our friend. It doesn’t matter what you said, it’s what you did that matters.”

Castiel wet his lips and stared at his lap in silence for several moments. He reached up and grabbed his straw, holding it in place as he put his lips on it. He sucked for a few moments and then swallowed, dropping his hand back to his lap and staring a bit more.

“I want to go hunting.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a quick look, but Sam was the one who spoke. “Castiel, you don’t—”

“I want to help. I want to… I want to do something to pay you back, and…” Castiel wet his lips, still looking down. “I need to get out… and talk to people… and make sure this is…” He sucked in a shaky breath and then let it out. “Once I recover a little… even if I just travel with you… for observation and research… I would… like to come along… if you’ll have me.”

Sam and Dean exchanged another look, longer and more intense. Sam shrugged his shoulders lightly, tilting his head in Castiel’s direction.

Dean gave a single nod and shifted his eyes back to Castiel. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.”

For the first time in a long time, Castiel smiled.

* * *

Dean perked up when he heard a knock at the door. “Ooh!” He left the eggs in the frying pan and bolted for the door, opening it up and hollering a word of thanks at the mailman already headed back to his vehicle. He grabbed the padded envelope and went back inside, running for the frying pan and taking it off the heat.

He really shouldn’t have been as excited as he was.

“Here we go, here we go.” Dean turned the stove off and went over to the table, sitting down across from Castiel, who had been awaiting breakfast.

“What is it?” Castiel leaned forward, trying to look in the envelope as Dean tore it open.

Dean pushed him away. “Ah, ah, ah, no peeking.” He looked into the envelope and dug around a bit, withdrawing a bracelet seconds later. “Here.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side and reached out, gingerly taking the plastic-wrapped gift from Dean’s hand. He tore the plastic and slid the bracelet out, examining it in the light of the early afternoon sun.

It was a leather band almost an inch wide with a half-inch metal plate affixed to the front. It was light gray in color—almost white, really—and the plate was a dull silver with the words ‘Four Hands’ engraved in the middle.

Castiel stared at it like it was the most fascinating thing on Earth.

“Hey, Sammy! Bobby!” Dean hollered, pouring the other three bracelets onto the table and looking for his. “Get in here!”

Dean grabbed the green one and tore the package open, giving it a onceover before wrestling it onto his wrist. It went on like a watch, which had been nearly impossible to find, but with all the hands-on work they did, Dean wanted them sturdy. Real leather, quality stitching, American-made… bracelets.

“What’s up?” Sam asked, walking into the kitchen and slowing to a curious stop when he saw Castiel staring at a bracelet. “Uh…?”

“Here, Sammy.” Dean grabbed the red one and tossed it to his younger brother, picking up the blue one and tossing it to Bobby as he rolled into the kitchen.

“What the—?” Bobby looked down at his lap.

Sam arched a brow and gave Dean a look, but he still opened it up. “Four Hands?” He gave Dean a look that was even more exasperated than its predecessor. “Led Zeppelin?”

Dean only grinned, rather proud of himself and happy to see Castiel still pouring over the gift with such intensity.

“Ain’t that a love song?” Bobby asked, tearing through the plastic and giving his own bracelet a look.

“Hey,” Dean snapped. “It was either _Four Hands_ —you know, ‘cause there’s four of us—or you were all getting Zeppelin songs that reminded me of you.” He pointed to Sam. “Yours would have been _Going to California…_ ” he pointed to Castiel, “…and yours would have been _Stairway to Heaven._ ”

Sam deadpanned. “ _Four Hands_ works.”

Bobby was putting his bracelet on when he asked, “What would mine have been?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “ _Sugar Mama._ Obviously.”

It was Bobby’s turn to give Dean a look, but he ultimately shook his head and let it drop. “I’ll wear it, but it’s a friendship _band._ I ain’t wearing no friendship _bracelet._ ”

Dean heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I couldn’t think of another name for it. Band. That’s perfect.” He looked at Sam. “That’s manly, right?” He looked at Castiel. “Right?”

Castiel only smiled softly and replied, “I don’t much care. I like the idea.” Then, after a pause. “I’ll wear it always. Thank you, Dean.”

“Sure thing, Cas.” Dean grinned, waving it off like it was no big deal.

Because it _was_ a big deal. Every step they took toward recovery, every time Castiel looked at the world with a little more confidence, every day started and ended on a good note; they were all big deals. Huge deals. Massive deals.

_We’ll get’cha there, Cas. Just give us time, and we’ll—_

Dean jumped to his feet. “Crap! I gotta finish making breakfast!”

* * *

“They did it for six months one time.”

Sam looked up from the book he was reading, watching Castiel’s face for any sign he was going to elaborate.

Dean didn’t have the patience for that. “What do you mean?”

Bobby put his pen down and folded his arms atop his desk, leaning forward to listen.

Castiel wet his lips and tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling with vacant eyes. “You found me in a warehouse in Van Nuys after a reeducation session. You… nursed me back to health, and we went on hunts…” He exhaled slowly, lips twitching into a faint, reminiscent smile. “I killed my first Wendigo, and I didn’t even smite it. I used a Molotov Cocktail, like you. I had… fun.” His smile grew a little and then faded. “We were tracking demonic activity in… Charlotte, North Carolina. But… Dean made a mistake, he said…” Castiel squinted up at the ceiling. “He said… something about… ‘less than a year ago, you were going to destroy a town just because Heaven ordered it… and now you’re on our side.’”

Sam looked to Dean for help, and he found a pained kind of expression that said there was more to that statement than Bobby or Sam understood.

“I had been looking for something wrong…” Castiel slowly shook his head, eyes glassy. “They had tricked me so many times, it was impossible not to subconsciously look for tells.” He swallowed hard, still staring up at the ceiling. “I said, ‘Dean, my orders were to do what you told me. Remember?’ He tried to recover, but he said something along the lines of… ‘either way, you used to be a hammer, and now you’re thinking for yourself.’ And I thought about it… and I remembered… when you said Uriel and I were hammers, Uriel was present, and that detail could have been in his report… but the conversation I had with you in the park… that wasn’t in any report. Nobody knew about that except me and you… which meant he was not you… and once I figured that out…”

Castiel stopped, his entire face changing. His mouth stayed open, lips and tongue moving slightly as he struggled for words, and his eyes were suddenly alert and afraid. His brow crinkled repeatedly, changing as his emotions swung from confused to afraid to uncertain and back again. His breathing got a little sharper, but it didn’t speed up, and his fingers started to scratch the denim on his thighs.

“Things… went back to normal after that. So, when we were in the abandoned hospital… and you tried to convince me that you were really you with a story of the park… I thought…” Castiel lowered his gaze from the ceiling, looking across the room to Dean. “I just wanted to apologize for my… lack of faith in you… and I want to apologize ahead of time for the faith I… honestly, may never have again.”

“Hey.” Dean shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not me you don’t have faith in, it’s reality. I mean, if Dad walked through the door right now, I’d be hitting him with silver, salt, holy water…” He spread his hands to indicate the list went on. “It doesn’t mean I don’t trust him, and it doesn’t mean I don’t think the world of him. It just means… I gotta check reality. I gotta make sure the guy in front of me is really the guy I trust with my life. So, I mean, if checking is what you have to do to know we’re really us… to feel safe around us… so be it.” He spread his hands again, in an almost nonchalant shrug. “What do you need from us?”

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, his eyes simultaneously hopeful and hollow. He eventually dropped his gaze, wet his lips, and spoke a soft reply. “I don’t know. You’ve done many things already that have helped. It isn’t so much that I am asking something of you as it is… notification.”

“Notification?” Dean’s face twisted up. “What does that even mean?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but, surprisingly, Bobby beat him to the punch.

“Not every problem can be fixed, Dean; that doesn’t mean he should have to deal with it on his own.” Bobby gestured to himself. “I can’t walk. You knowing about it doesn’t change a thing, but it helps.” He pressed his lips together tightly; that was all he was going to say on the subject of himself. “Point is, misery loves company, and Cas is family.”

Dean looked from Bobby to Castiel. “Hey, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know.” Castiel smiled slightly. “I don’t know what I need to recover, but… you both have had wonderful ideas about all of… this… and I thought more information would be useful to you.”

Sam gave a light smile. “It is. Thank you, Castiel.” He smiled a little more. “And… any time you feel the need to talk about what happened… just to say it out loud and get it straight in your head… we’re here for you.” Sam had done plenty of research on long-term exposure therapy, and he was no professional, but he would do all he could to help Castiel process his trauma.

Castiel nodded and then turned in his seat to look out the window, falling silent and looking almost peaceful, as if he hadn’t been completely distraught just a minute earlier.

Sam, Bobby, and Dean all exchanged confused and worried glances.

_It’s so hard to figure out where his head is these days._

But at least it was in a better place than it had been before.

* * *

Dean was on his way down to the kitchen when he heard it. For a moment, he thought his nightmare had slipped into the waking world, but the cries in Hell weren’t soft, and whatever he was hearing was. It had to be real.

Dean slowed to a stop in the hallway and gradually turned, squinting at the floor and listening for more of the muffled sound. It was coming from the same direction as the guest room, and despite being half-asleep, Dean’s brain could still realize Castiel was most likely making the noise. Dean rushed down the hall and knocked lightly on the door, bringing the sound to an abrupt halt.

“Cas?” he called softly.

Silence was maintained for all of three seconds, and then Castiel was crying again, quiet and choked and held back as much as it could be. Dean gave the knob a twist and let himself in, immediately spotting Castiel curled up in a blanket at the head of the bed.

“Cas, what’s wrong? You pull out your stitches?” It was a rhetorical question—Dean was almost positive Castiel had been having nightmares—but Dean needed time to think of what to do, so he stalled.

Castiel slipped his hand out of the blanket bundle and made a beckoning gesture with his fingers, offering no verbal reply.

Dean hesitated for a second, and then he shut the door and approached the bed. “Hey… tell me what’s wrong.”

Castiel latched onto Dean’s wrist, and Dean was actually afraid for a moment. It was a grip of iron, the kind of hold Dean suspected left the handprint on his shoulder.

“Cas?”

Castiel pulled him closer, and the noise from inside the blanket increased.

Dean wet his lips and glanced at the door. _Maybe I should get help._ He had heard stories of soldiers with PTSD strangling their own spouses when pulled out of nightmares or flashbacks. Who knew what Castiel would do to Dean?

“Hey, uh… please don’t kill me, okay?” Dean whispered as he eased onto the bed, one foot still on the floor while the other leg folded in front of him. “I just wanna help.” He leaned back against the headboard and opened his mouth to prod a little more.

Castiel cried out almost hysterically and launched himself at Dean, arms winding around Dean’s torso and preventing him from pulling away.

“Cas, stop!”

Castiel didn’t stop, but he didn’t do anything to hurt Dean. He just held on for dear life, shaking hard, bruising Dean’s ribs under his hold. And he cried. Harsh sobs that racked his entire body, tearing out of him, broken up only by the intermittent gasps for air.

It took another second, but Dean quickly realized Castiel had never intended to attack him. He wasn’t lost in dream state or flashing back to his torture, he just needed a hug.

Badly.

“Hey, shh… it’s okay.” He put one arm around Castiel’s shoulders and, after a moment of hesitation, wrapped the other around Castiel’s front. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Dean looked down at the bundle of sheets, squinting in the dim light. _He’s curled up tight. I can feel his knees digging into my side._ Dean was missing something. It was more than a nightmare, more than a need for comfort, more than a hug. It was something… primal. _I have no idea what I’m doing. Geeze, Cas, I want to help you, but I don’t know what I’m doing._

Dean rubbed Castiel’s back a few times, and Castiel clung tighter with his arms while pushing back with his shoulders. It reminded Dean of the day they found him, curled up on the floor and pushing into whatever touch was offered. Even as Castiel insisted they weren’t real, even as he accused Sam of being a monster, he had leaned into their touch.

Come to think of it… back at the motel, when they needed a fitfully sleeping Castiel to calm down, all they had to do was touch his shoulder or arm. And when they had put him in the Impala for the first time, he had wrapped himself in a blanket and curled up tight. When he ran through the woods like a madman, being wrapped in a hug was the catalyst that let their words get through to him.

 _“Please… I’ve been so alone for so_ _long…”_

_“I’m alone, I deserve to be alone, and no one is coming for me!”_

_“I just don’t want to be alone anymore!”_

And Dean had an ‘aha’ moment.

“They didn’t always use scenarios, did they?”

Castiel trembled and let out a quiet whine but offered no response.

“No, of course not,” Dean muttered. “If they didn’t mix it up, it would’ve stopped working a long time ago.” Dean snorted and shook his head, pulling Castiel against himself as tightly as he could without causing pain. “And when you weren’t in a fake scenario, you were alone.”

Castiel nodded against Dean’s ribcage, perpetually trying to move closer, as if he could crawl inside Dean and hide there.

Dean cursed under his breath.

In Hell, Dean had learned to loathe touch. Everything always hurt, every sense was always on high alert. There was no mercy, no reprieve from the constant overstimulation. When he had first crawled out of his grave and found himself touched only by clothing, surrounded by silence, and a distinct lack of the stench of aging blood and burning flesh… he had almost cried from sheer relief.

When Castiel first woke up— _really_ woke up—he had pushed Dean’s hands away, and Dean had assumed it was out of the same fear. But Castiel had been trying to keep away the _temptation_. Castiel didn’t want to let the sensation of touch go to his head and make him cave to Heaven’s will.

“Oh, Cas…” Dean let out a soft sigh and grabbed the blanket, helping Castiel wrap it around himself. “How long did they have you?”

Castiel shook his head. Whether that meant he refused to answer or simply didn’t know, Dean was left to guess.

“Talk to me, Cas. I know I can’t fix it,” which drove him crazier than anyone would ever understand, “but I might be able to help.”

Castiel didn’t lift his head, didn’t uncurl, and didn’t move away from Dean in any way, shape, or form. “They would pull me out of Jimmy,” he whispered, fingers curling and digging into Dean’s back and shoulder blade. “If I wasn’t in a scenario, I was almost always… in my true form, and…” he shook his head, “…when they would hurt me, I couldn’t cover my own wounds, as I did when I had Jimmy’s body. I couldn’t curl up, I couldn’t—couldn’t wrap my arms around myself, couldn’t—” he choked out a sob and suddenly switched tracks, his voice rising slightly. “I learned that—that humans, when you’re stressed, you sometimes reach up and massage the muscles in your neck, or—or you rub your forehead or eyes, and—and that helped. That helped when I was in the scenarios; nobody touched me, but I could touch myself, I could offer myself some sort of... I don’t know, _something._ ” He gasped down a few lungfuls of air and tried to get his tears and tongue back under control. “And then they would take it away, and there was _nothing,_ centuries of _nothing,_ so much _nothing_ until I couldn’t remember what it was like to physically feel anything. The last time they did it, I—I even forgot what pain felt like, and I thought to myself—I thought, ‘This is it. This isn’t deprivation, this is prison. They’re finally done with me, and this is where I’ll be kept for the rest of eternity.’ And it almost drove me mad, it almost—” Castiel actually loosened his hold for a moment, but Dean was certain it was only from exhaustion. “And then they pulled me out, punished me after I had gone _so_ long without any kind of sensation, and then… I woke up in the abandoned hospital, and I—if this isn’t real, Dean, if this is—if I have to go back to the nothing, I don’t—I won’t—I—” he dragged air into his lungs and shook his head. “I’ll be gone. There won’t be any me left, I won’t—I won’t be able to take it, not after—not after this. I’ll kill myself. I’ll have to.”

Dean was struck speechless, which was good because Castiel wasn’t done, but Dean couldn’t help feeling like there was something he was supposed to be doing. Something more than an unbreakable hold on Castiel’s entire body. Something more than sitting in the dark and listening in open, unjudging silence.

“Humans, you—you touch so much. You touch _so_ much. You shake hands when you meet, you touch each other on the arm to direct attention, you pat each other on the back, you do your—your fiving, your high-fiving. You pack yourselves into stadiums to experience music or art or sport together, and you crowd onto busses and trains and boats. If a stranger needs a hug, you’ll give it. You hold hands when walking, you shove each other when you play and tease, you carry each other—especially small children—and you don’t realize. Inside family units you cuddle and kiss and hug and—” Castiel shook his head, swallowing thickly. “And you don’t _realize_ , but I do. And I know if the angel I was before I fell saw me now, he would be disgusted, and I tell myself that somewhere, deep down, I’m still that angel. I tell myself he’s getting stronger, and if I just have enough time, I won’t be this… _thing_ anymore. But then you pat my back and tell me I’ll be alright, or Sam touches my arm and asks if I’m okay, or Bobby swats me with the back of his hand to get my attention…” He retightened his grip on Dean, lifting himself up a little to put his head on Dean’s chest. “And I know I can never go back. I can’t go back to nothing, not after this. I can’t—I can’t do it, Dean. I just can’t.”

Dean blinked down at the bundle of fallen angel in his arms, trying to think of something to say and coming up blank. Castiel wasn’t looking at him, so he couldn’t relay any kind of message with his eyes. He didn’t know what to do.

So, he held on a little tighter. He rubbed Castiel’s back and reached up to comb through his hair a few times. He went back to rubbing Castiel’s back and tucked the edges of the blanket in between soothing movements.

“You’ll be alright, Cas.”

Castiel sniffed in the darkness.

“It’ll take time, but you will. I’ll make sure of that.”

Castiel said nothing.

“I mean it, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

Castiel looked up at him with wide, watery eyes. “I should be,” he whispered.

Dean shook his head sharply. “No, Cas. No one deserves to be alone, and _you_ definitely don’t.” He held on a little tighter—was that even possible?—and screwed his eyes shut. “You gotta trust me, man. You gotta trust me. You did it once before, and I know it went bad, but I’m not gonna cut you off again.”

“I don’t blame you, Dean.” Castiel stayed curled up, but he relaxed a little in Dean’s arms, letting Dean control the hold. “Not for any of it. I just wish you hadn’t spent all that time thinking I betrayed you.” He sniffed. “Well, I did betray you, but… but after we fought in the greenroom, I realized I was wrong. I was going to get you out, try and get you to Sam, and that’s when…”

Dean shook his head, blinking away the moisture in his eyes. “Cas… that is the last thing I care about.” He flashed a week smile. “I just wish you hadn’t spent all that time thinking I wouldn’t forgive you.” _Thinking you didn’t deserve to be forgiven._

Castiel didn’t say anything to that.

Dean didn’t say anything either.

Silence settled over the room, a soft glow coming from the nightlight plugged into the wall nearby. Dean could make out the box Castiel used to store his scrapbooking things over in the corner, and he could see Castiel’s lucky flannel hanging on the doorknob. He looked at the mostly plain room that was slowly but surely being imprinted with _Castiel_.

“It’s okay if you’re touchy-feely, you know.” Dean didn’t even realize he was talking until he heard his own voice in his ears. But he wet his lips and rolled with it. “Lots of people are. You said it yourself, inside ‘family units’ we hug and kiss and cuddle and…” He shrugged, rubbing Castiel’s shoulder. “You said your old self would be disgusted… like there’s something wrong with that.”

Castiel sniffed and sank a little lower, tucking himself into Dean’s side, almost entirely relaxed. He reached out to lay a hand on Dean’s stomach, pulled it back, reached out, pulled it back, and then finally placed it on Dean’s ribcage, where he could tuck it close to his own body and keep it safe.

“Cas, Sam and Bobby and I want you to get better because you’re hurting. I joke around, especially with Sam, about chick-flick moments, but… I would never think less of you for needing hugs and scrapbooking. Okay?” Dean felt a twinge of guilt in his chest; he should have said something sooner. “You’re my best friend, Cas. You’re my brother. You need some cuddles to get better, cool, but if you still need them or want them when you _are_ better… that’s okay, man. It really is.”

Castiel didn’t say anything, curling up a little as he shuddered. He sniffed, drawing idle patterns on Dean’s side, and then he whispered, “I’m supposed to be better than that.”

“That’s crap.” Dean shook his head, making a split-second decision and scooting down the mattress, bringing a bewildered Castiel with him. “There’s nothing ‘better’ about not needing or wanting hugs.” He grabbed one of the pillows that had been shoved aside in Castiel’s panic and hit it a few times, getting it under his head and settling down for the night. “We could all use a few more hugs.”

Castiel let Dean arrange the comforter over the both of them, and after a moment of hesitation, he settled down beside Dean with a contented sigh.

 _I hope that’s a good thing._ Dean hoped any of what he said was good. He hoped he got his point across, he hoped he didn’t make Castiel feel guilty or pitied or _anything_ negative. He hoped it did something to chip away another piece of the lies wrapped around Castiel’s brain.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean frowned in the dark. “What for?”

Castiel put his head on Dean’s chest, tapping his index finger against Dean’s ribs in sync with Dean’s heartbeat. “Just thank you.”

Dean waited for a moment, but Castiel didn’t say anything else. So, Dean pursed his lips and accepted the thanks as confirmation that he had not, in fact, screwed anything up.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Cas.”

* * *

Castiel stood in the doorway to the living room with a blend of determination and excitement bubbling in his chest, his eyes wandering over the three individuals that were most certainly real.

Castiel took a breath. “Today is Bonfire Day,” he announced.

Bobby looked up from his crossword with an arched brow. “Is it, now?”

Sam frowned slightly, confused. “I don’t think that’s right, Cas. October 14th is—”

“Bonfire Day,” Castiel said simply. “I invented it.”

Bobby exchanged the raised brow for a furrowed one. “Okay, we’ll bite.” He gave Castiel a curious look. “What made you make today Bonfire Day?”

“Well, it’s a rather warm day for October, and the sun sets in two hours. So, because it is Bonfire Day—and it is not raining, as rain would create exigent circumstances—it is customary to gather with close family and friends around a bonfire while partaking in food and drink.”

“Oh.” Dean got up from the couch with a grin, stretching his arms over his head. “Well, if it’s customary, this research will have to wait.”

Bobby snorted, setting his pen down and reaching over to fiddle with the metal bar on his friendship band. “What else is customary on Bonfire Day?”

Castiel flexed his fingers at his sides, not sure what to do with his hands. He was never quite sure of what to do with his hands. “You have to stay out until the sun goes down and you can see stars in the sky.”

Sam smiled at Castiel and joined Dean in standing up. “That sounds like a great idea, Cas. You pick a place for the bonfire?”

Castiel nodded sharply. “Yes. And I accumulated the appropriate amount of flammable waste. And I researched the local restrictions and spoke with Sheriff Mills, so it’s exactly the right size.” He had been sure to cover all his bases. He had done it himself, without anyone telling him to. It was _his,_ and however humiliating it was, he needed them to approve of what he had made.

“Well,” Dean clapped his hands and then rubbed them together. “Let’s get started. I’ll grab the beer.”

“I already got that.” Castiel wet his lips, squashing down the sense of nervousness rising up from the pit of his stomach. “Everything is ready, I… just need the three of you.”

“Oh.” Dean nodded, but he seemed a bit hesitant.

Sam smiled. “If we’re going to stay out until the sun goes down, I want to grab—”

“Your brown jacket is already on-site.” Castiel pressed his lips together, looking between the three of them. “I gathered everyone’s preferred jacket as well as some blankets.” With the fire, he doubted they would need them, but he wanted to be prepared nonetheless.

Bobby huffed, but it sounded more like a laugh than anything. “You really worked hard on this, didn’t you?”

Castiel nodded his head, reaching over to fiddle with his friendship band.

“Well, then, let’s go.” Dean spread his arms, and he still seemed enthusiastic.

They all did, and that made Castiel feel better about leading them out to the site of his bonfire. It wasn’t too far, and the dirt path was smooth; which, of course, Castiel had intentionally orchestrated to make it easier for Bobby to travel. It was an open area, and the burn pile itself was already built up and doused in kerosene. Up above, the sky was starting to darken somewhat, the sun hovering above the mountain range in the distance.

“Ooh, hot dogs.” Dean seemed pleased with the food Castiel had brought. “Ooh! S’mores! Wait a minute… no…” He looked at Castiel with wide eyes and a smile. “Did you get stuff to make mountain pies?”

Castiel smiled slightly. “When I stay behind during hunts, Bobby tells me many stories. He told me about making mountain pies, and he said both you and Sam liked them very much.”

Bobby had a smile on his face when he pulled a chilled beer from the ice cooler.

Sam grabbed a bag of potato chips and tore open the top, popping one into his mouth and giving Castiel a smile. “This is awesome, Cas. I definitely support the creation of Bonfire Day.”

Castiel smiled, feeling a swell of pride in his chest. Maybe his angelic abilities had yet to return, but he could still do things. It took him longer than it would an ordinary human, because he had to do significant research that they didn’t, but he could still _do_ it.

“Just gotta light the fire,” Dean said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Bobby, what kind of pie do you want?”

Castiel opened his mouth to object to the idea of him lighting the fire, but Bobby and Dean were immediately wrapped up in what they were doing. Castiel looked down at the box of matches sitting on the blanket, a faint tightness going into his chest.

_No, no, no, you can’t do things, you can’t light a pile of kerosene and wood, someone will get hurt, you’ll mess it up, you always mess it up, you’re defective, you’re useless, you’re a burden, you can’t do anything, you can’t even light a fire, you’re weak, you’re disgusting—_

“Castiel?”

Castiel jumped despite the softness of Sam’s voice, and he turned wide eyes to the tallest member of their family. “Yes?”

Sam smiled kindly. “You look upset.” He glanced at the matches and then met Castiel’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Castiel shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just—thinking.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he reached out and pulled Castiel into a simple hug. Castiel returned the embrace immediately.

_—warm, touch, sensation, familiar, safe, loved, happy, home, warm, familiar, touch, close, soft, loved, safe, special, close, family, home, happy, touch—_

“You’re not useless, Castiel.” Sam put his hand on the back of Castiel’s head, the embrace soft and natural. “It’s okay that you’re not better yet. It’s okay that you can’t light the fire with a snap of your fingers.” He stroked Castiel’s hair. “It’s okay that you’re uncertain. You aren’t used to dealing with forces you can’t control. Being cautious doesn’t make you weak, it makes you wise.” Sam squeezed lightly. “You are _not_ weak, Castiel. You’re a survivor. You don’t owe anybody anything.”

Castiel held on until Sam dropped his arms—he didn’t think he would ever be the first to pull away from a hug—and then he looked at the matches. He grabbed the box and opened it, pulling out a match and looking at it for a long moment.

“Fire ain’t gonna light itself, Feathers.”

Castiel looked over at Bobby and was greeted by the sight of both Bobby and Dean watching him with concern on their faces. He gave them a reassuring smile. “No, it won’t.”

Castiel looked back at the matchbox and walked closer to the pile.

“Just remember to jump back quick, and you’ll be fine,” Sam said from behind.

Castiel struck the match and watch it burn for a second, and then he leaned down, close enough to drop it without the fall blowing out the flame. He let it go and jumped back as the pile was engulfed in flames with a loud crack and a sudden wave of heat.

“Yeah!” Dean put a fist in the air. “We are one step closer to mountain pies!”

Castiel looked at Sam and smiled. “I did it.” He immediately realized how stupid it was to be proud of such a small feat.

But Sam only smiled. “Yeah, you did. Did it make you happy?”

Castiel thought about that for a moment. “I think… the entire ordeal has made me happy. It was… fun… to plan this behind your backs… sneak around, get all your favorite things…” He looked over his shoulder at the fire. “Yes, it did make me happy.”

“Good.” Sam nodded affirmatively. “It’s good that it made you happy.”

Castiel wet his lips and nodded, looking at the matchbox for another moment before startling out of his thoughts and pointing at Bobby and Dean. “Shall we join them?”

“I will always join anyone for a mountain pie,” Sam laughed.

Castiel laughed, too. Just a chuckle, soft and short, but genuine.

Castiel and Sam joined Bobby and Dean, and they spent the next two hours eating and drinking sugary and delightful things their bodies were probably better off without. They laid on the blankets—even Bobby, with some help—and they stared up at the stars, pointing out the occasional streak of light in the sky. Bobby told more stories, some of which ended with Dean huffing and puffing in a rather embarrassed manner, and then Bobby insisted it was getting too late and too cold for ‘old folk.’ Castiel thought maybe Sam and Dean would want to go back inside, too, but twenty minutes later, the three of them were still spread out under the stars.

“Tell me this is real.” Castiel spoke softly, afraid of breaking the peace they had obtained by bringing up his mental state. “Tell me this is all real, and it won’t be gone when I wake up tomorrow.”

Dean, laying on Castiel’s right, elbowed him lightly. “This is all real, man. Name me one angel who even knows what a mountain pie is. Heathens, all of them.”

Castiel laughed softly, turning his head to look at Sam on his left.

Sam smiled warmly. “This is real, Cas, and I’m really glad it is. We could use more days like this.” His smile expanded slightly. “My stomach might not agree, but…”

Castiel laughed again, and then he was staring up at the sky again. He saw a shooting star, which Sam pointed out a second later, and he wrapped his coat around himself to keep out the mid-October chill.

 _Father, please let this be real._ Castiel took a subtle breath and wet his lips. _And if it isn’t, please kill me before I wake up._

Just in case. Because he might have been recovering, but he hadn’t recovered enough to _not_ doubt the sheer happiness coming over him in waves.

He would, though. If the Winchesters got their way, he would.

And the Winchesters always got their way.

“I love you.” Castiel had tears in his eyes.

“We love you, too, Cas.”

And of that, Castiel had no doubt at all.


End file.
